tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-119621342011-11-05T15:28:48.881-04:00A JOURNAL OF POETIC RESEARCHMacgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.comBlogger3631100tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-52338282975931877052007-03-20T21:42:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:44:42.914-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/nikolai-oleinikov-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/nikolai-oleinikov-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE FLY<br /><br />I was madly in love with a fly.<br />O friends, it was so long ago,<br />When I was happy and young, <br />When young and happy was I.<br /><br />I would pick up a microscope,<br />Observing her studiously:<br />Her cheeks, her eyes and her forehead—<br />And then I’d direct it at me!<br /><br />And I saw that the two of us<br />Were complimentary to no end,<br />That she was in love with me too,<br />My glittering, many-legged girlfriend.<br /><br />She flew in circles above me,<br />She knocked and she beat on the glass.<br />Sometimes we would join in a kiss.<br />What was time to me when she loved me?<br /><br />But years have passed and disease<br />Holds me with oppressive caress.<br />In my ears, in my back, in my knees,<br />Shooting pains interrupt my rest.<br /><br />I now am no longer myself<br />And my fly, oh, my fly is no more.<br />She no longer buzzes and sings,<br />She no longer knocks on the window. <br /><br />An invisible serpent doth gnaw at my heart<br />And forgotten emotions are stirred.<br />There’s nothing before me now, nothing...<br />O my fly! O my trembling bird!</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/nikolai-oleinikov-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/nikolai-oleinikov-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-5233828297593187705?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-9300239502841190872007-03-20T21:40:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:44:31.905-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/nikolai-oleinikov-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/nikolai-oleinikov-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">TO A LADY, UNWILLING TO RENOUNCE THE<br />CONSUMPTION OF MEAT FROM CHERKASSY<br /><br />Madam, avoid beef.<br />It brings your stomach wall to grief.<br />It lays its seal onto your intestine.<br />Eating it will make you squeal from strife internecine.<br /><br />Not so with rabbits. Their caloric play<br />Recalls a sunny summer day.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/nikolai-oleinikov-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/nikolai-oleinikov-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-930023950284119087?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-68433757131638660222007-03-20T21:08:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:37:59.589-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p7.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE LYNCHING<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Petrov mounts his horse and makes, addressing a crowd, a speech about what would happen if an American skyscraper were built on the site of a public garden. The crowd listens, obviously in agreement. Petrov makes a few notes in his journal. A man of average height emerges from the crowd and demands to know what Petrov just wrote. Petrov answers that it is his own business. The man of average height insists. Some heated words are exchanged, and a melee ensues. The crowd takes the side of the man of average height, and Petrov, fearing for his life, spurs his horse and disappears around the bend. The crowd is in the state of unrest, and, not having its intended victim, sets upon the man of average height and tears off his head. The torn off head rolls away and lodges in the drainage hole. The crowd, having satisfied its passions, disperses.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(translation by Roman Turovsky)</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p7.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-6843375713163866022?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-61687059099118003532007-03-20T21:06:00.000-04:002007-03-21T13:34:53.383-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p8.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">BLUE NOTEBOOK #10<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Once there lived a red-haired man who lacked eyes and ears. He was also lacking all hair, so he was called red-haired only with a large degree of generalization.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;He couldn’t speak, as he was lacking a mouth. The same with his nose. Even arms and legs, he just didn’t have any. Nor stomach, nor backside, nor spine. And no intestine. He didn’t have anything! Therefore it is totally unclear who is being discussed.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In fact, let’s not talk about him anymore.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(translation by Roman Turovsky)</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p8.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-6168705909911800353?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-4695808696648220042007-03-20T20:52:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:37:32.290-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p7.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">INCIDENCES<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Once Orlov overate on peas and died. And Krylov, having found out about this, died too. And Spiridonov died on his own accord. And Spiridonov’s granny turned into a wino and went off to panhandle. And his children drowned in a pond. And Mikhailov stopped combing and developed dandruff. And Kruglov painted a lady with a whip in hand and lost his mind. And Perekhrestov was wired four hundred roubles, and got so full of himself that he got fired from his job. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;These are all nice people who just don’t know how to comport themselves with assurance.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(translation by Roman Turovsky)</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p7.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-469580869664822004?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-50292287932978650872007-03-20T20:49:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:36:18.633-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">MALTONIUS OLBREN<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The Plot: M. wishes to rise three feet above the ground. He stands for hours facing the wardrobe. Over the wardrobe hangs a painting, but he can’t see it: the wardrobe’s in the way. Days, weeks and months go by. Every day the man stands in front of the wardrobe and tries to rise up into the air. He fails to rise, but he does start to have visions, the same vision every time. Every time he picks out more and more details. M. forgets that he wanted to rise above the ground and gives himself over completely to the study of the vision. And then one time when the maid was cleaning the room, she asked him to take down the painting so that she could wipe the dust off. When M. got up on a stool and glanced at the painting, he saw that the painting depicted what he had seen in his vision. That’s when he understood that for a long time already he had been rising into the air, hovering in front of the wardrobe and seeing the painting.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Treatment.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(translation by Matvei Yankelevich)</span></div><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-5029228793297865087?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-23078599393201420662007-03-20T20:47:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:36:13.431-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">DEATH OF A LITTLE OLD MAN<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A little sphere sprang out of one little old man’s nose and fell to the ground. The little old man bent over to lift up the little sphere and that’s when a little stick sprang from his eye and also fell to the ground. The little old man was frightened and, not knowing what to do, moved his lips. At that moment, out of the little old man’s mouth sprang a little square. The little old man grabbed his mouth, but then a little mouse sprang out of the little old man’s sleeve. The little old man became ill with fear and, so as not to fall, he sat down into a squat. But then something snapped inside the little old man and, like a soft plush coat, he toppled to the ground. That’s when a longish little reed sprang from the torn hole, and on its very end sat a thin little bird. The little old man wanted to scream out, but one of his jaws got stuck behind the other and he only hiccupped weakly and closed one eye. The little old man’s other eye remained open. It ceased moving and glistening and became motionless and murky, like that of a dead person. In such a way, cunning death caught up to the little old man who had not expected it.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(translation by Matvei Yankelevich)</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-2307859939320142066?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-14855006937733675532007-03-20T20:45:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:36:01.221-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">KOLPAKOV, BRAGGART<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There once lived a man named Fedor Fedorovich Kolpakov.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“I am not afraid,” Fedor Fedorovich Kolpakov used to say, “of anything! Shoot me with cannons, throw me in the water, burn me with fire—I am not afraid of anything! I am not afraid of tigers, I am not afraid of eagles, I am not afraid of whales, I am not afraid of spiders—I am not afraid of anything!” <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;One time Fedor Fedorovich Kolpakov stood on a bridge watching divers dive in the water. He watched and he watched, and then when the divers got out and took off their diving suits, he couldn’t hold himself back and so he starts hollering at them:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Hey,” he hollers, “that’s nothing! I could do better than that! I am not afraid of anything! I am not afraid of tigers, I am not afraid of eagles, I am not afraid of whales, I am not afraid of spiders—I am not afraid of anything! Burn me with fire, shoot me with cannons, throw me in the water—I am not afraid of anything! “ <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Oh yeah,” say the divers, “you wanna try going under water?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“What for?” says Fedor Fedorovich and starts to leave.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“What are you, chickening out?” say the divers.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“I am not chickening out of anything,” says Fedor Fedorovich, “But why should I go under water?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“You’re scared, that’s what it is!” say the divers.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“No, I’m not scared!” says Fedor Fedorovich.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Then put the suit on and go into the water.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So Fedor Fedorovich dove to the bottom. And the divers start hollering at him into the telephone from on top:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“So how is it going, Fedor Fedorovich? Scared?”<br />And Fedor Fedorovich answers them from below: “Niav... niav... niav...”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Ok,” say the divers, “that’s enough for him.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So they dragged Fedor Fedorovich out of the water, took off his diving suit, and Fedor Fedorovich is looking about him with his eyes all savage, and saying nothing but “Niav... niav... niav... o.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“There you go, man, don’t go bragging,” said the divers and put him down on the shore.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Fedor Fedorovich went home and never bragged ever again.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(translation by Eugene Ostashevsky)</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-1485500693773367553?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-81256714079858963902007-03-20T20:19:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:33:36.908-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">[ANTON ANTONOVICH SHAVED OFF HIS BEARD]<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Anton Antonovich shaved off his beard and none of his acquaintances could recognize him any longer.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“How is that possible,” Anton Antonovich exclaimed. “It’s me, Anton Antonovich. It’s just that I shaved off my beard.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Yeah, right!” the acquaintances replied. “Anton Antonovich had a beard, and you don’t.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“I am telling you, I too had a beard but I shaved it off!” Anton Antonovich insisted. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“All sorts of people had beards!” replied the acquaintances.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“What the hell is this, really,” Anton Antonovich would say, losing his temper. “Who am I supposed to be then, according to you?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“That we don’t know,” the acquaintances replied. “But you are not Anton Antonovich.”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Stumped, Anton Antonovich could not decide what to do. He went to visit the Naskakovs, but they met him with expressions of astonishment, asking: “Who are you looking for?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“I am looking for you, Marusia!” said Anton Antonovich. “Don’t you know who I am?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“No,” said Marusia Naskakov. Her curiosity was piqued: “Wait… Maybe I saw you at Valentina Petrovna’s?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“What do you mean, Marusia?” said Anton Antonovich. “Look at me carefully. Do you recognize me?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Wait, wait… No, I can’t recall who you are,” said Marusia.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“I am Anton Antonovich, obviously!” said Anton Antonovich. “Do you recognize me now?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“No,” said Marusia. “You are joking.”<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(translation by Eugene Ostashevsky)</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-8125671407985896390?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-78899219727334841352007-03-20T19:50:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:33:40.180-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p8.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE EWE<br /><br />1.<br />The white ewe walked<br />the white ewe wandered<br />cried out in the fields above the river<br />called for its lambs and minor birds<br />waved its white hand<br />lay prostrate before me<br />invited me into the grass<br />and in the grass waving its hand<br />the white ewe walked<br />the white ewe wandered.<br /><br />2.<br />Do you know the white ewe<br />do you believe the white ewe<br />stands in its crowns by the stove<br />the same identical as you<br />As if I were friends with you<br />as if it were bright crowns I held<br />you are above us and then I<br />and then a house on three pillars<br />and higher yet the white ewe<br />walks the white ewe<br /><br />3.<br />The white ewe walks<br />and after her the capricorn<br />with a big face among the saints<br />with a purse hirsute like the earth<br />stands in the pasture like a house<br />the earth below, thunder above<br />we to the side, earth all around<br />and God above among the saints<br />and higher yet the white ewe<br />walks the white ewe<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(translation by Eugene Ostashevsky)</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p8.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2007/03/daniil-kharms-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-7889921972733484135?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126499345566008502005-09-12T00:26:00.000-04:002005-09-12T00:29:05.566-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/caroline-crumpacker-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/caroline-crumpacker-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">INTRODUCTION TO MY WORK<br /><br />Where would you imagine we are standing,<br />Sir, Sire, Soldier of androgyny?<br /><br />Not near enough to be causing you sensation<br /><br />This is the story of one day there was and then blank.<br />This is the story of “Blank brought me here.”<br />This is the story of “<span style="font-style:italic;">He</span> brought me here.”<br /><br />Six o’clock and my work is ready for defense.<br /><br />The professors wear trousers and the demoiselles wear my work.<br />I wish it was <span style="font-style:italic;">in vogue</span>.<br /><br />The novelist who wrote his book on lotus blossoms, I love<br />his couch and his nineteenth century. I love the small woman<br />he calls <span style="font-style:italic;">friend</span>. But that’s it. The novel is full of excuses.<br />Under every hoop skirt is a fall out the window, so what?<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Look</span>, the little girls are ready for the next lesson.<br /><br />the privileged pretend to be implicated as in glamour boy<br />pouting on the beach but <span style="font-style:italic;">why</span>, what has sailed away?<br />Is it his address? Is it his idealism? Doesn’t he remember<br />the sweetheart he had back in the sands?<br /><br />The implication is of privilege.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Darling</span>. There is a white dress.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Darling</span>. There is a lingonberry taste.<br /><br />The rain was less fashionable after the discussion<br />of the rain. The discussion was more like an affectation.<br />Such affectation causes, well, rain.<br /><br />Which brings me back to You.<br />Weak with power, huge with weakness.<br />I would not crack your back by standing on it<br />but by pointing out what you are thinking.<br /><br />Cold like a lake in the middle of nowhere.<br />Tasting of metal.<br />Cold like the tiny window that closes on the 4th floor<br />of a grand maison. Inside is a sick child calling for lemon.<br /><br />That is your work station, that is your third medallion.<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Return it</span>. Others have been here before you and their nothing<br />is better than yours.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/caroline-crumpacker-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/caroline-crumpacker-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112649934556600850?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126499173944997252005-09-12T00:23:00.000-04:002005-09-12T00:26:13.946-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/caroline-crumpacker-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/caroline-crumpacker-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">TO THE EDITOR<br /><br />Imagine that a letter is reeled in,<br />naked to the waist. Imagine that I am writing you<br />from a small place slung with glass and coins,<br />and that you are listening, with the blankness<br />of a connoisseur. Sir, I mean to ask you<br />a question or, if you prefer, to thank you.<br />My thanks dispels a tension, it quells a thirst<br />and we miss that but nonetheless, the table<br />has been here longer than we have—<br />that being its vocation and this being<br />our first encounter across it. This insignificance<br />is at least as pretty as our “conversation.”<br /><br />Meaning everything is too tight but the pages.<br />Meaning you are theorizing the reader, aren’t you?<br />The answer is apatropaic, apopletic, priapic.<br /><br />This is the <span style="font-style:italic;">gendarmerie</span> of a very small thought.<br />You must remember everything that brought you here<br />and still be fluent in seven tongues. Yes, it is exhausting.<br />Yes, you must be both informer and information.<br />How else can we continue? On the terrace<br />of an art nouveau? Meaning ill-fitting?<br />Meaning raising a glass to something encyclopedic?<br />Calalily of the prefecture, where is that letter now?<br />Did we decide that it was naïve? Did I write it<br />or did we share an imagining of feverish<br />dimension? <span style="font-style:italic;">I thought that was you</span>, you might whisper<br />or a band might play. The one who hired us<br />must have been craving melodrama.&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I, for one, pity the impulse.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/caroline-crumpacker-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/caroline-crumpacker-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112649917394499725?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126498469126901112005-09-12T00:13:00.000-04:002005-09-12T00:14:29.126-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">A COCKTAIL PARTY PROBABLY SUCCEEDS AS THE SIZE OF <br />THE ROOM RELATES INVERSELY TO THE NUMBER OF GUESTS<br /><br />First off, let me say I can only do what I can do. I can’t<br />change the slit of my eyes, the hue of my skin,<br />or the size of my prodigal nose. God knows I’ve tried.<br />And yet it’s nice to discuss these things in an open way, free<br />from bumping into floating sandbars, culpable charity, free<br />from even too much rigor. But what cannot be<br />free enough is competition, minus the vinegar. Stay with me,<br />please. I need to be included. Inclusion is a tricky task<br />when your audience numbers more than two members<br />(familial excluded) and reckons your minutes. The best<br />one can hope for is to engender a certain sense of curiosity<br />in one’s scholars. Underlings may agree and disagree,<br />but the tide shall wipe them all out. All my sins remembered.<br />Not too loudly. Shakespeare tutored me in prayer.<br />Not too loudly. You see, the real trouble is not in tolerance—<br />for that’s simply another word for self-segregation—the true<br />trouble is finding appreciation in our fellow folk. It’s in there,<br />somewhere between acknowledgement and confession.<br />Between duty and due care. There is a lot of space to play.<br />We are all more likeable than different but somehow I keep<br />forgetting that. I infer I am still human. Take the French<br />Revolution. It can now be confirmed that Sèvres porcelain<br />teacups, from said era, were not modeled on Marie Antoinette’s<br />breasts. And Michelangelo’s David, infallible, his penis is indeed<br />proportionate to his body. But what is the virtue of commensurate<br />response? I defer to geography, a discipline that no longer<br />exists, how it seeks its proper stimulus in the surplus of itself.<br />Case in point. Tonight, I confess, all the white horses are<br />in bed. The barrel is in its crib. The civilized ways will have to<br />do all they can, to keep the neighbor’s dog from keeping<br />me up. I can no longer tolerate my true love,<br />who has vanished between a couple of friends. But look,<br />there! That weight of friendship at the bottom’s depth,<br />now somehow surfaces. Buoyed by tears.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112649846912690111?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126498396309088912005-09-12T00:11:00.000-04:002005-09-12T00:13:16.310-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">GENTLE READER<br /><br />You might like some of the poems at once, but you mustn’t be surprised if your taste differs from the rest of the class. If you like the sea, there is a poem on p. 67 to start on; if you enjoy reading about “battles long ago” (even though you think wars today are unnecessary, silly, and violent) go to p. 11, or see the stirring ballad of “Weathercock and Firefly,” p. 34. If you like poems about nature, you might try “Lubber Breeze”; or, if you prefer humorous poetry, you might start with “The Devil and the Marmoset.” And then, there’s everyone’s greatest joy and incense: “Love Poems,” which you will find, like the French, everywhere and nowhere at once, but especially on p. 109 with “A Little Morning After Poem.”<br /> <br />After a time you’ll realize that you can have good poems about every subject under the sun, and you don’t have to be fond of the subject or the sun in order to like the poem. For example, you may have a horror of cats and yet enjoy “Cat’s Meat”; you may think it lunacy to believe in fairies and mermaids, and yet take delight in the poem titled “On p. 32.” You may think that men are ugly but discover a poem about them that is beautiful.<br /><br />So. If you don’t like a poem at first, it doesn’t necessarily mean it is a bad poem or that the poet and the muse haven’t done their jobs. Not every good poem need move you, even if they have caused their owners arch pain and great sadness. A little this about that: while Theseus or Shakespeare may have been having a little joke in that last scene of <span style="font-style:italic;">A Midsummer Night’s Dream</span>, the lunatic, the lover, and the poet can’t be happy all the time and can’t be sad all the time. Still, it is important to recall that all true artists must cultivate pain: remember mother.<br /><br />I do not countenance giving advice to strangers; however, before you begin the poems you should make a resolution never to pretend to like a poem you really find dull. Unless you are quite honest in your likes and dislikes you will end up hating poems altogether, and that would be a predicament. O.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112649839630908891?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126498303870928472005-09-12T00:10:00.000-04:002005-09-12T00:11:43.873-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">HUMAN RESOURCES<br /><br />O sure Knowledge & Truth & Reason, they can get me<br />through the day—but who, if I cried out, would hear me<br />among the angels’ cossocks? An eager reporter, a pimply staffer?<br />The priest makes his gesture, one last wafer on the tongue.<br />The Body: a minor atrocity. The Soul: thousands of lost<br />lost thousands. For the big B-S split, the better minds have<br />already sent in specially designed cranes and derricks, a slew of<br />lap cats with a slew of girls’ necklaces, and a little old couple<br />with tickets to a baseball game. But no one has heard a word<br />from any of the dead. And I can’t sleep either. I’m never sure<br />of anything as long as one member of a couple is asleep<br />and the other is not. So much for all this being an instant<br />swat on the back of an ant. A red ant who looks for home inside<br />every orange peel. What it might be to be wrapped as tightly<br />as the rind wraps the orange. Stretched to breaking. For what is<br />love but a heroic pain in the ass: the wrecked body inside<br />the wrecked ship. Or yet another humungous fish to battle. Bumpy,<br />bumpy ride. The headlights dip. The map mounts from the lap.<br />All rise for the projection of plenitude. Come clean with it.<br />A collusion in watching a woman wash her foot. How is it<br />possible to trim the backyard hedges without looking at the naked<br />girls in the neighbor’s pellucid pool? Between a finger and a<br />thumb is it. Decreasing time. O to be done with There’s-A-Limit.<br />The barbed-wire fence around the old Paris of the heart. O sure<br />what’s a petite lie. What’s a bigger word. A puff of tobacco, a real<br />feather shuttlecock, a bit of resistance from the finger to the trigger.<br />Let the lowest bird lay, I say, the lawn is soft and loose. Pity<br />its unrehearsed embrace. The O of the bottom is O so long.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112649830387092847?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126498236544795232005-09-12T00:07:00.000-04:002005-09-12T00:10:36.560-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">COME BACK MY DAUGHTER FROM THE GREEN FJORDS<br /><br />Why I couldn’t see my bride ever again I had no idea.<br />To him who marries and marries and marries—<br />gael, giddy, gall—bear it out! With borrowed resolve,<br />I sent my twinkling troops back into the cemetery.<br />This time however, the man with the violin case wasn’t talking.<br />I was embarrassed that all my guests had brought such charming gifts<br />and I’d forgotten the sugar at the store. Had I time to dig out<br />a new sugar lane to the neighbor’s before the grand event?<br />No. I’d have to compromise once more. Scraped the icing off<br />the hard tack and onto the angel food cake, and announced<br />“finger food,” as if I were a pig who knows he’s dinner.<br />Ten beatings later, or maybe more, my servants screamed<br />bloody murder! It was about time. I didn’t know how long<br />any of us were going to keep this up. A frail layer of ice<br />maintains itself only so long before completely cracking<br />under the weight of heavy breath. People were getting restless,<br />so I made a peace offering. “A round of tears for everybody,<br />on me!” But nobody drinks anymore. The head chef was<br />especially perplexed at the state of events, since he’d gotten up<br />extra early that morning. I know, because it was slightly after<br />I noticed that my Anna Livia had run away. And there again was<br />the cake to remind me of the great escape from the bedroom<br />ledge. The work of thieves posing as firefighters. My slit<br />satchel fully emptied of peas. I threw open all the windows<br />and screamed to the trees, Nest or fly! Nest or fly!</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mark-yakich-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112649823654479523?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126486860933637732005-09-11T21:00:00.000-04:002005-09-11T21:01:00.936-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">HOW HIGH THE MOON<br /><br />Is that a clock?<br />If it is, you’ll have to turn it more toward me<br />because from this angle, as it is,<br />I can’t see anything<br />of what’s happened. Can only hear<br />the sullen buzz of electricity,<br />a gnat wishing, as it were, it were<br />in the tan beyond.<br /><br />A pinchwork of skin is registering<br />an evil tick. My eyes are sighing,<br />O sad, O sad. And serious<br />things are happening outside.<br />Meanwhile, two are sitting in here<br />in the How High the Moon Chairs.<br />Each giving the other a comforting smooch.<br />Tell me again<br /><br />how Time doesn’t much exist.<br />Only art. Only x<br />solving itself stutteringly like a ripe balloon<br />on the downswing. Unhurried love<br />shimmying across the marble walls.<br />Fistfuls of miniature bamboo<br />growing becoming all slowly. An ear at the earthbed<br />can next to hear them<br /><br />as clouds form above<br />from cluster bombs dropped on a distant land.<br />Forty-six years from this now,<br />the moon will again be full.<br />Fueled by reflection, by transference.<br />In the Sierras it’s snowing.<br />In 2020 will we be<br />less blind? Nineteen eyeblinks answer<br />in a brushed aluminum November.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648686093363773?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126486813193828022005-09-11T20:58:00.000-04:002005-09-11T21:00:13.196-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">FROM THE MOUTH OF ARCHITECTURE<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">for Leslie Laskey</span><br /><br />On the facade, egg and dart meets the architrave<br />and in the arches, impost to impost,<br />the held breath<br />of a stopped real. Inside, she is object—<br /><br />genre-bound precious in a white-walled vault.<br />This is how the self stays<br />a self, she says. Unbendingly. She tries<br />the glass paneled doors plaid-wrapped<br /><br />in wrought-iron sleeves, all art-<br />deco. Locked, they served to keep her<br />behind herself where pictures are lashed<br />and alarmed, and words remain one<br /><br />with their categories: plaqued, apt or inadequate.<br />Each frame is a frame and perspective embedded.<br />A message is also embedded (Don’t touch me).<br />The cartoon moon, the papaya with palm tree,<br /><br />the face of the figure who went to his death<br />with a chiseled look. What more is there? Tears<br />and repentance? An amaryllis turns<br />to say good-bye. Good-bye. Enormous sky<br /><br />page. Harmony of the player/eraser unreeling.<br />The impeccable natural when nature reveals<br />its true salt.<br />In the heart of the morning,<br /><br />the evening. The ten o’clock window opens<br />and inquiry enters: Who are you?<br />Alice retracts what she said earlier. Says instead,<br />I’ll only be more reckless if ever I wake.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648681319382802?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126486703947439572005-09-11T20:57:00.000-04:002005-09-11T20:58:23.950-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE TROPIC BRIDE<br /><br />What she needed was<br />a bird, a beak, something rockhard that could break<br />the crystalline cold that encased her (tap, tap, tap,<br /><br />against the tin-<br />ny window). Pleasure a votive for memory, a motive<br />candle at the shrine of the one who’d refused<br /><br />to be begotten. He sat looking back<br />over his shoulder at the building. It was crude<br />cathexis that had brought them there.<br /><br />Did she wish, he wanted to know?<br />Sure she wished but—<br />He was covered with cat fur, a feral found<br /><br />behind a stack of firewood, red feathers flecking the snow,<br />a mouth tasting of sacrifice. Crimson minutes. Tiny ticks<br />in the cat’s fur removed with tweezers.<br /><br />Each leaving a purpural mark. A purple trade,<br />this for that. Scar<br />for what they’d done once. An impulse<br /><br />to unrest the surface, the earned quietude, flitted<br />but then it did what it did, it fled.<br />Took flight. That bird at the wheel,<br /><br />over the lintel bridge, while through the door<br />a tide. A tap turned, a floodgush sweeping<br />them down the hill. They sat. Stunned there.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/mary-jo-bang-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648670394743957?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126486157456580512005-09-11T20:48:00.000-04:002005-09-11T20:49:17.456-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/john-schertzer-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/john-schertzer-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE CRACKED CASE<br /><br />The regulation fetal<br />surprise<br />retraces all external receptivity—<br /><br />expectation by the mouth-full<br />where eleven separate<br />dimensions, all in an L-shape<br /><br />remind us of our insularity<br />and void of expression (two keys<br />for the motorcade—what was it<br /><br />that made it move before the movie set began rolling?)<br /><br />I have no diagram<br />to explain the action of protean mass<br />but her kiss<br /><br />left shapely on my back, hid behind the glass<br />over by the reel-to-reel<br />to get a print on lavender with the proximity<br /><br />of players before the recital. We sat down<br />and doubted our arrival. In that dwelling<br /><br />several voices bequeathed all they had to us<br />and our unruly damnation—dogs and bugs everywhere<br />made it unsafe to pose<br /><br />any ordinary question. We had to buy thumb<br />screws and damaged glassware<br />to protect ourselves once the set was over.<br /><br />The air was full of steam, cement<br />and the lattice-work<br />that held their undergarments in tow<br /><br />while rumors settled and disintegrated<br />on the ocean floor. How was it we had no notion.<br />We were born awake<br /><br />started quick by remaining ghosts layering musical tableau<br /><br />before the glass caved in<br />got locked in the open around<br />the perimeter of the station. All this talk<br /><br />of war and intrigue was only here to remind you<br />of your natal urge<br />which was to flood your fingers with red crayons<br /><br />along the edge of some elevated<br />calendar<br />of spring before cramping its desire.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/john-schertzer-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/john-schertzer-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div>\<div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648615745658051?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126486088853425622005-09-11T20:46:00.000-04:002005-09-11T20:48:08.866-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/john-schertzer-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/john-schertzer-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">COMPASS (A CHOREOGRAPHY)<br /><br />The circling plane removed itself from the sky<br />and settled in a box of liquid.<br /><br />We knew from her form<br />she was from out of the country<br /><br />ground out of glass<br />till she could glide like an eel over the surface<br />of the waves.<br /><br />There were twelve ways of looking at her, one<br />through a steel cylinder<br /><br />flooded with supernal light, burped from the underside of a tree.<br /><br />The mirror reversed itself<br />her double<br />burnt on the face on a coin flicked into the air above a lake.<br /><br />The ivory or the burnished skin<br />in a bag by the laundry<br />disguised as an ectoplasmic purse<br /><br />or aromatic warmer, twirled itself around<br />runways, felt the interface between<br /><br />abstraction and moisture.<br /><br />All day long we were down by the projector. We were by the broken<br />reactor<br />copying ourselves into the air, or the car.<br /><br />All day long the bridge<br />to tomorrow hurt, the way the cables swept underground.<br /><br />The copy machine<br />had reduced itself<br />to a slide show, so that the first feature was<br /><br />“why are we here?” or “silver crackers, anyone?”<br /><br />By the time we got control over the rest of our lives, the reel had<br /><br />become a sickle over the city.<br /><br />Her emblem had been awake, had redone our<br />shopping malls,<br />mauled us as we slept<br /><br />in a circle, centered around our teeth,<br />redistributed<br />casually, into the next sentence,<br /><br />or the next century, or something like that.<br /><br />And screeched like a bell fallen from its joist<br />sliding down along<br />the hypotenuse of the roof. She spent<br /><br />all day trying<br />to fix us, but then flew to another city.<br /><br />She spent all afternoon trying to fix us, but remembered<br />the arc of the compass<br />turning above our absence of bodies.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/john-schertzer-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/john-schertzer-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648608885342562?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126480452324967402005-09-11T19:13:00.000-04:002005-09-11T19:14:12.326-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">TO A CONTEMPORARY<br /><br />I think I now understand<br />that you have to<br />want your writing to reach<br />people you don’t want to have sex with<br />as much as you want it to reach those you do—<br />but can you do it, for once,<br />without having to act so goddamn self-reliant!<br /><br />Can’t you consider the trees<br />that for 10 months out of 12<br />are more allergic to us than we to them?<br />or the geriatric ward that comes every winter,<br />the winter that comes every workday<br />e’en in the form of an airconditioner<br />you can only have access to by leaving your home without it.<br />The home you like to call your soul<br />just so you can feel resentfully soulless around us.<br /><br />You don’t make enough<br />for doubling your salary to be worth it,<br />so you might as well side with fun.<br />Indifferent fun that will never appreciate you<br />for being so dour on its behalf<br />as if sharing your sorrows was more authentic<br />and our friendship more profound<br />than your latest fling.<br /><br />Surely I haven’t “evolved” enough to crawl<br />out of the sea with the scales<br />I thought I could fool you into believing was fur<br /><br />If you could kiss while talking,<br />the waiting room wouldn’t have to disguise itself<br />as a place of transcendence lined with trophies,<br />suburbs wouldn’t be so jealous of cities<br />and post-Soviet Nato would stop bombing itself.<br /><br />Soon, you may get to thinking you have<br />to keep what you’re writing private now<br />because in it you are too blatantly trying<br />to figure out what to do next<br />and these writings will lose their value<br />if they are seen by others<br />before you have acted on them<br /><br />You, who in journalism and song,<br />allege the difference between saying things<br />and analyzing why you say them<br />who believe you’ve found yourself a wall<br />with no water but no thirst<br />to be one of the privileged islands<br />I am still unable to see<br />for the largely submerged mountain range<br />of which they are a part.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648045232496740?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126480377345985482005-09-11T19:12:00.000-04:002005-09-11T19:12:57.346-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">HISTORY, FROM HOW TO WHO<br /><br />Sleep through thunder, snarl in snow<br />subjectival and conceptive<br />the thoughts that (luckily) fail<br />to build a mind in which to live.<br /><br />Reader! it’s okay if your rain is my rain,<br />but I wouldn’t recommend it—<br />Better my rain be your drizzle<br />falling gently perhaps on the umbrella<br />leaning over the frosted glass from which you guzzle.<br /><br />Thus, if I were to walk out into myself,<br />the below freezing self that February has brought back<br />to bracket, there’d be no rain but snow,<br />& not the kind that lands on the roof of the 40 story Time Life<br />only to become rain when it meets the street,<br />but the kind that can’t become rain<br />even when it lands in the deepest well<br />iced-over though closer to the molten core<br />as I become to myself.<br />It still makes me laugh (that it makes me angry)<br />that some find within the self<br />a bridgeable, erasable, distance<br />while you may ride your trike to Peru<br />and I hop on a plane, or go through the hall,<br />to get to my living room<br />from the bedroom that’s too busy being an office<br />to be a music room for the moment.<br /><br />I will disappear when it’s a music room again<br />but the discrepancy is only erasable by death<br />and something worse than death<br />worse than the worst specificity<br />will better me in the hallway<br />I only share with those<br />I don’t know enough to snow</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648037734598548?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126480308794106192005-09-11T19:11:00.000-04:002005-09-11T19:11:48.796-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">GIVING WAY<br /><br />Most dualisms star the chicken and the egg,<br />And not just because I am an orphan.<br />I could wish for better pathos toys,<br />For clearer fears, and hope.<br />I could go to college to cure highschool<br />And preschool to cure the college.<br />I could cry, “Give me back my sailor’s suit of meditation<br /><br />and then my beautiful breathless bird<br />so sunned in September rain<br />so travelled and highwayed and thawed<br />in the space where the deer parks wild<br />and roasting roars another coaster<br />from the wafer of your kiss<br />my snug friend of Middlesex and midtown eateries<br />cordoned off by the parade police<br />at the police parade, the meanest pedestrian,<br />the mermaid, the bruja verde, the stains of life<br />on the mattress of death, motorized and flying<br />over the river to land on a miracle disguised<br />by a memory from the distant past.<br /><br />Self-consciousness stops just short of paranoia.<br />Brakes are tested on a slippery slope—<br />Oh my furniture without polish, my bowing bookshelf<br />My as as by, my the and wild thyme, sea port, port land,<br />Oregano and rice, my short tall meanings,<br />My trance of magnets, my song not so beautiful<br />Lest the record’s stuck (I recorded it skipping),<br />My ideological horoscope, scatalogical watercycle.<br />Oh noble opposition with a Tao up your Manichean sleeve,<br />Oh Jones Beach of the crotch sold to the Time/Life Building<br />Oh the self that loveth me in the heterosexist dark<br />And tickles the monogamous moonlight.<br />Oh competitive fury, oh reason to get out of bed again,<br />Oh bed of health, oh love like grass<br />That hasn’t spread across the whole yard yet.<br />Oh unrooted sod. Do not die just yet.<br />You who make me want to do everything at once,<br />Even try my hand at security through scrutiny,<br />Beauty through the beast, treason through the tyrant.<br />Oh physical activity unpaid, even seeming ungenerous.<br />I long to do you and be you<br />Though not at the same time<br />And, no, you’re not going to ruin it for me<br />By giving away the ending<br />Unless it’s an awful flick in the first place.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648030879410619?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126480244208572022005-09-11T19:09:00.000-04:002005-09-11T19:10:44.210-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">MOCK ON, MOCK ON, JAKOBSON, LACAN<br /><br />There are some leaves that do not fall,<br />For whom falling is what flying is<br />To men whose winged imagination<br />Has become a cliché since Kitty Hawk,<br />For whom flying is even to a kamikaze<br />Whose skin is not the plane.<br /><br />These leaves may appear as trees<br />That never fall, at least within the span<br />Of a human life. Leaves like the sun<br />Presumably is, if spoken of by a self,<br />A body already dead, at least to surprise.<br /><br />But the trees fall gently as leaves,<br />The sun burns out as gently as the briefest candle,<br />Not because we’re bigger<br />Than it, than them, than it,<br />But because whatever it is that has holes<br />Is no more us than the capital,<br />Whether civic or commercial,<br />Exposed or insidious,<br />Of the national or global economy.<br /><br />The patterns on the weather map<br />Are more beautiful than the stockmarket grafts;<br />The parody of the mountain range,<br />The way time takes the form of erosion<br />To do unto bare outlines exactly what life does<br />To what they said was you<br />(or seemed to in toyland,<br />the chocolate and sugar<br />that rebelled against<br />plain old bananas and apples and streets).<br /><br />A pair of incisors exposes itself<br />For the camera, not the one for the film<br />As much as the one used to shoot<br />The documentary of the film<br />Which it turns out will be called the same name<br />As the book on which the film is based<br />(as if it was the post-Reagan years<br />that proved you could outlive the apocalypse).<br /><br />Then the mouth shuts again.<br />This may have happened in the dying<br />Factory town of Schenectady,<br />Which now shares a shopping center<br />With the civic capital (whose center<br />got destroyed to make way for the<br />concrete egg and the highway to the commercial capital)<br />Of the Empire State, the center that has no center<br />But that which is found in becoming it<br />And yes you can bring a lover<br />Even if you don’t need but merely want<br />Even if there is a difference,<br /><br />But maybe it’s just easier<br />For folks of my generation<br />To identify with dying factory towns<br />Than it is for my students.<br />We may even have more in common<br />With those older than us in this—<br />Or maybe it’s just a matter of class.<br />But I will never pay to be on a boat<br />With Reich’s “symbolic analysts”<br />Though perhaps I’ve been, will be, a stowaway<br />With my orgone accumulator.<br /><br />It was later than I thought<br />When I first believed them, and the hunter<br />Gets captured by the game, a diatribe<br />Against those who privilege metonymy over metaphor.<br />A dying factory town is being undone<br />Like a bodice o’er a bosom.<br />It’s not too late, to build more stairs<br />Or let the mountains erode—<br />What’s being undone was<br />An undoing from the start.<br />Thus it expresses its affirmative inaction through us.<br /><br />The leaves fall like propaganda<br />Leaving a bare tree outside the picture<br />Every season but winter paints<br />As long as we have no more evergreens,<br />As long as the west wind<br />Was strong enough to seduce the clingers,<br />The clip-ons as well as the drifters<br />To the barren boardwalk of finality, and beneath—<br />To prove there’s no dead factory towns,<br />No heads of state but cherries subduing themselves<br />To the melting (or molten) sundae in which they work,<br />More natural than heaven or hell.<br /><br />Thus, the season must be seized<br />As if it’s a moment, the only moment<br />In which there are no leaves but trees<br />And being itself a fruit to be eaten<br />With no jealous god to offend<br />By the sound of our mouthless digestion<br />But the economy I couldn’t live in without opposing<br />Lustful, yes, for the ecology it calls punishment.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648024420857202?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126480116759687042005-09-11T19:05:00.000-04:002005-09-11T19:08:58.936-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">INNER CONE & ANT<br /><br />The mountains were alive for a second<br />Then they started making promises again.<br />Clouds got low enough to rain themselves into the clear<br />Where every circling bird refuses to make bathing<br />A question of need; some of the circles are small<br />But some are bigger than the sky so you think<br />Fragment, silver, island, environmentally sound flatness<br />As if imperialism was simply a symptom<br />Of the trauma of roundness when the sun occupied<br />The empty center and history was a weather report<br />That made no room for you amidst its bubbles<br />Where ocean was air to the thrown.<br /><br />And the mountain takes longer to cook than to eat<br />So the horizon widens like ripples to the shore<br />Of what wouldn’t be a mirror were there not graffiti on it,<br />Sayings that give you pause and charge for development<br />Because the night’s more a darkroom than a theatre<br />Or the stage is the action of rehearsal.<br /><br />The floorboards are trembling so you’d think we’re outside<br />among shaking leaves and heaven is no roof<br />So you have to jump out of your skin with the muscles<br />A materialist would call the soul.<br />The sunbathing barometers you mate with<br />Huddling by the fire in a medieval winter<br />In tarantula coasts, shaggy as a plantation owner<br />Without slaves or inheritance, having to use animals as friends<br />To climb their sides in a phone wire’s clearcut runway<br />Where there are so many channels to choose from<br />They will never be changed unless you feel like your<br />Whole body’s bungee jumping when your fingers<br />Run slowly down a salt shaker, are just let slip like that<br />In absentmindedness as you offer your hikemate “advice”<br />About the virtues of self-consciousness as long as you think<br />You know someone better by not putting them on the defensive.<br /><br />The figure grows but the ground doesn’t shrink<br />For the sky doesn’t have to take the mountains with it<br />In the absence of clouds that would be a single city to you<br />Did you believe that sublimation’s starring role in civilization<br />Was your favorite form of shaving in the boiler room<br />Where everybody puts on boars’ heads and pretends<br />To fuck their brains out until the light’s turned on<br />And the cockroach form of the soul calls off the hunt<br />For the less visible nuisances that keep you awake<br />Well into your thirties, and you’re ready to call the whole thing off<br />But the truck has many wheels, all spinning at the same speed.<br />You lie between the larger ones, tremble to the marrow<br />And not only remain unscathed but are replenished,<br />Clean and vibrating.<br /><br />You get rid of furniture by becoming it. A window<br />Blows its horn. Somewhere there are muscle spasms, sushi.<br />If life wouldn’t be an ache you wouldn’t have to spend so much time<br />In death. Call it a circus. No one cares. I come bearing quicksand<br />To slow the thing down so it seems faster than it did<br />When it wouldn’t stop, but some wall of sun<br />Steps between my eye and the sky. The sun is<br />The sunglasses the night wears so it can keep the sky to itself.<br />The white, blue, and gray paintcans flit through it<br />Like meteors. Night is honest until it becomes a darkroom.<br />You can rub against the mountains in it until they become promises,<br />Till they become visible, till they become threatening.<br /><br />Their many moods stain each crag with a lumberjack’s<br />worst nightmare. Onions and peppers, even salami.<br />He made his lover a crust of bread in public<br />In hopes of finding the stone as watery as the water was stony.<br />Some moments seem to be a wider opening<br />Until they seem like years. Forceps argue without fighting.<br />Without love you may be nothing, but without nothing<br />There is love. Nothing is extinct, if nothing is.<br />It could be black, could be blue, could be fat free enough<br />To make you want to chew. That’s why I didn’t know<br />You were air until we made love, why time was a circle<br />And the present no green hub the decaying brain takes longer<br />To cook than to eat so an old man on his escaped deathbed<br />Feels more of the future in front of him than the young intern<br />Trying to synchronize his watch to hospital time.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/chris-stroffolino-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112648011675968704?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126410437741902412005-09-10T23:45:00.000-04:002005-09-10T23:48:12.326-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/joanna-fuhrman-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/joanna-fuhrman-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">MEANS OF ENTRY<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;WINDOW<br /><br />A dead or sleeping bird dangles <br />from a tree. I can read my fortune based <br />on the direction it hangs: north for love, <br />east for money. The milkmaiding of the harp <br />softens the blow to deem it no knock at all. <br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Hear me Hear me</span> I whisper into my pillow. <br />I just wanted to promise someone something <br />or other—not the excess of the post-Nixon-era brain, <br />but a nice little square: a quasi-oceanic flesh module.<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;DOOR<br /><br />We take showers in different apartments<br />while it rains outside. The unbridled riddle<br />of eagle season gives our cells a new lease.<br />If you were here, you’d laugh at me <br />for trying to siphon the last drop of beauty <br />from space, as if I could create a new <br />idea of space, separate from our need <br />to live in it and think we know it.<br />The top of a radish rots in a puddle.<br />Nothing is ever just sad.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/joanna-fuhrman-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/joanna-fuhrman-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112641043774190241?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126410303913560932005-09-10T23:41:00.000-04:002005-09-10T23:49:11.193-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/joanna-fuhrman-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/joanna-fuhrman-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">STABLE-SELF BLUES<br /><blockquote><blockquote>“It is odd to have a separate mouth.”<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;—Bill Berkson</span></blockquote></blockquote><br />I’m just another pizza delivery girl<br />Without a pizza, a raconteur with nothing<br />To recount. I heavy-breathe by the rabbit <br />Iconography, refusing to multiply. Mina Loy <br />Is my favorite video game.<br />I love blowing up those enemy nouns.<br /><br />Do you think we could escape into a city without nouns?<br />Be the thought-repressor-gesture demanded of each girl<br />Who sticks her tongue into the game<br />Of another’s ribs. With lights off, nothing<br />Could stun us more than a Mina Loy<br />Christmas tree, decorated with pink rabbits<br /><br />Feet key chains. Oh no. Rabbits!<br />They’re like a new breed of nouns<br />Multiplying like a couple of Mina Loys<br />Into a pointillist ex-girl<br />Paradise of verbs. Nothing <br />Could really be better than this game<br /><br />In which nothing feels like it is a game,<br />And dead friendships like sick rabbits<br />Swirl a sonata into the single nothing<br />In the disarray of things. Damn nouns,<br />Please stop muting my explosions. You’re too girly<br />Dressed to kill like Mina Loy,<br /><br />Pretending you’re just a minor Mina Loy.<br />Don’t think I’m putting down all games.<br />I love the exquisite popcorn fiasco of those girls<br />Dancing until they turn into a thousand rabbits<br />Chewing on a slew of predigested nouns,<br />Swallowing the last of all those so-called “things.”<br /><br />I wish I could be happy to be just a thing,<br />To decorate the foyer like a post-poem Mina Loy,<br />To be content with all the useless nouns<br />Before they fracture into neon games.<br />Imagine what peace those rabbits<br />Could inspire if they stopped chewing the ribbons of the girls.<br /><br />Who said nouns? I’ve enjoyed the migrating waves of game.<br />There’s nothing really left to my memory of Mina Loy. <br />The stuffed rabbits on the pillow sleep like the sweetest smallest girl.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/joanna-fuhrman-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/joanna-fuhrman-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112641030391356093?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126405905578134712005-09-10T22:30:00.000-04:002005-09-10T22:31:45.580-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">SPY AND BEAUTY TREATMENT<br /><br />Oundle after lime burnt<br />at the kiln, Oundle were a place<br />of other days. Whittlesea false<br />in borrowed rays, three miles on.<br /><br />Needle threadless, gameboy of the fair confession<br />made upon the lea. And a bounty of two moons.<br />As they often leave the oaks half cut down<br />till the bark men come to pill them.<br /><br />I looked sideways for hope & fear.<br />Magic perpendiculars. Chin deep,<br />the country chin deep in rumors of flight.<br />Cold frames, breeze-ways, storm doors.<br /><br />Slang for the pink redoubt. For<br />I had imagined Oundle after lime burnt<br />at the kiln. Orison. Knife-and-shearlessness.<br />Oundle were a place of other days.<br /><br />Mazed, them busk and boon, my box<br />of lucifers. Everything and its opposite.<br />A pounding harder than nature<br />could bear. Wets unpretending beauties.<br /><br />All under the leaves, the leaves of life,<br />triple glazing protection for shiny folk.<br />Last copy changing hands. Sews nicely.<br />And the swinkt hedger at his supper sat.<br /><br />An old white thorn full of fame,<br />the ox man fleured. So there.<br />A swallow of poppy seeds,<br />tint of delight.<br /><br />Off the hooks, waiting to be repaired<br />till repairs are useless. Plowman purple<br />with cold, so crowded with awes that bye and bye<br />the fields will be dressed with nothing.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112640590557813471?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126405834052822542005-09-10T22:29:00.000-04:002005-09-10T22:30:34.056-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">OFF<br /><br />Let it not be said<br />and the breeders rolled up the map<br />showing all the turquoise mines in Arizona,<br />evanished figures and landscape, live,<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">quasi</span>-credent, eve-lengthened bud…<br />islet of ether in a whole Sky of blackest Cloudage.<br /><br />Something came over them,<br />nay, the swan of objectation,<br />if that’s the word she used.<br />Cell floor decorated with torn strips,<br />weather fit for man nor beast.<br />It lived eleven days.<br /><br />Of course, any child’s a picture of something<br />far away (and something close)<br />gone twice to seed,<br />but this one’s good for plenty more:<br />it took the mold of a wish—<br />come true—the kind that spells an end<br /><br />to this or that, before its time.<br />A glimpse of something hideous<br />from her window the morning<br />she conceived. And, oh—<br />the policeman’s grin—<br />they both remembered that.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112640583405282254?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126405746168448662005-09-10T22:27:00.000-04:002005-09-10T22:29:06.170-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">HARD NICKNAMEY SYSTEM<br /><br />I was now wearing into the sunshine,<br />an old wide-awake hat<br />and a straw bonnet of the plum pudding<br />sort—if that makes any sense.<br />I put the hat in my pocket.<br /><br />Thus the same thing of every thing.<br />Jargonelle, early pear,<br />the magical “perforated strap”<br />leant by Aphrodite to be worn talking<br />trash and get him bridled seen.<br /><br />My fears grew less by custom<br />for I have known people who:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;+ take hot or cold baths<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;+ pinch themselves<br />And all my favorite places have met with misfortune.<br /><br />In went the arm up to the shoulder<br />and then came fear upon us<br />stealing peas in church time<br />when the owners was safe to boil at the gypsies’ fire<br />who went half shares at our stolen luxury.<br /><br />Out it’s came the world adieu,<br />it was a moonlight night.<br />O row me in a pair o sheets,<br />the never a bit can I eat or drink<br />my heart’s saw full of pine.<br /><br />Fond of getting cuckoos, bluebells, the selfsame golden<br />eye and surfeit with its blushing stains<br />underneath, under water on May eve. Firstness<br />tossing pinwheels and cowslip balls<br />over the garland hung from chimney to chimney.<br /><br />Breathing flutes, beechen bowls—<br />I felt the warning for once.<br />A sizeable gudgeon twinkled round the glossy pebbles.<br />I’m afraid that’s it. Or something afloat on the chance<br />he won’t. Sorrow there was<br /><br />made fair. Desiderata<br />One pair of Candlesticks<br />One better set of China<br />Two tubs & a pail—a counterpane<br />A pipe six blankets.<br /><br />O word’s gone to a gamekeeper and his man.<br />Throned angels—unboyling anguish. Tea things.<br />Lov’d the same love & hated the same hate.<br />Strange navigator. A meadow with now<br />and then a single arch crossing the meadow.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112640574616844866?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126405635353199302005-09-10T22:25:00.000-04:002005-09-10T22:27:15.363-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">LUX AETERNA<br /><br />Standard model.<br />Brutal model.<br />Fishnet model.<br />Private model.<br />Model for you.<br />Chafed model.<br />Arcade model.<br />Blacklist model.<br />Nebuchadnezzar model.<br />Breach model.<br />Egg-and-dart model.<br />Ignition model.<br />Plus model.<br />Blindfold model.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/daniel-tiffany-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112640563535319930?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126393180852532412005-09-10T18:40:00.000-04:002005-09-10T19:01:53.450-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/aleksandr-vvedensky-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/aleksandr-vvedensky-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">FROTHER<br /><br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align:center;">3 PARTS</div><br />The sons stood by the wall, flashing their feet shod in spurs. They rejoiced and said:<br /> <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Promulgate to us dear father<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What is this thing called Frother.<br /><br />The father, flashing his eyes, replied:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Do not confuse, my sons<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The day of the end and the knight of spring.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Blue, terrible and grizzled is Frother.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I am your angel. I am your father.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I know its cruelty,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;My death is close at hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Bald spots gape on my head,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Empty patches. I am bored. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And should my life drag on,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Neither a falcon nor a tuft of hair <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Will remain anywhere.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;This means death is at hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;This means hello boredom.<br /><br />The sons twinkled their bells and then rattled their tongues:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But that wasn’t our question,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Our thoughts gestate like mansions.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Won’t you tell us dear father<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What is this thing called Frother.<br /><br />And the father exclaimed, “The prologue!<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the prologue what matters is God.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Go to sleep, sons. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;There are dreams: watch some.” <br /><br />The sons lay down to sleep. Having hid mushrooms in their pockets. Even the walls seemed obedient. Many things seemed, what of it. Actually not much seemed to us nor to them. But hark! What was that? Once more the father didn’t give a direct answer. And to the sons who woke anew this is what he said, exclaiming and flashing his eyebrows:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Let the gray-haired people<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sing and dance.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Let them wave their arms<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Like a man.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On a placid, beautiful day <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You diminish in breath.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;How soon I will apprehend <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The perfection of death.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The horses rush like waves,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Hooves clop. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The steeds are dashing and ablaze,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Vanished they gallop.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;But how to clasp their abatement,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And are all of us mortal?<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What can you tell me, O moment<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Will I understand you?<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The bed stands before me,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I’ll softly lie,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And under the wall I’ll feign to be <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A flag and gladioli.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sons, sons. My hour approaches.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I’m dying. I’m dying.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Don’t ride in coaches.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The end, it comes.<br /><br />In rows, flashing their feet, the sons begin to dance a quadrille. The first son, or is it the first pair, says:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Please do tell us dear father<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What is this thing called Frother.<br /><br />And the second son, or is it the second pair, says:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Maybe Frother is a tether, <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A teether or a head in feathers. <br /><br />Then the third son, or is it the third pair:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I can’t understand O father<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where is Frother? What is Frother?<br /><br />The father, flashing his eyes, moans menacingly:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O I wallow in pillows!<br /><br />The first son:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Father, I pallow in willows. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You must not die<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Before you ply reply.<br /><br />The second son, dancing like a loyal subject:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O Frother, Frother, Frother.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O father, father, father.<br /><br />Finally the third son, dancing like a gunshot:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Dolls and dunce caps have burned out, <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I’m a boat a boat a bout.<br /><br />The sons stop dancing, because it can’t all be fun and games, can it. They sit mutely and quietly by their father’s expired bed. They look into his wilting eyes. They wish to repeat everything. The father is dying. He becomes fleshy like a bunch of grapes. We are terrified to look into his, so to speak, face. The sons say nothing as each of them enters his own superstitious wall. <br /><br />Frother is the cold froth forming on the dead man’s brow. It is the dew of death, that’s what Frother is.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align:center;">PART TWO</div><br />The father is flying over the writing desk. But don’t think he’s a spirit.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I saw, as you’d have it, a rose,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;This tedious petal of earth.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The flower apparently was<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Thinking its last thoughts. <br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It caressed the neighboring mountains<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With the terminal breath of its soul.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Princesses floated and stars<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Above in the heavenly pall.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;As my sons went away <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And my horse like a wave<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Stood and clacked its hoof,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The moon yellowed nearby.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O flower convinced of delight<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The godly hour is at hand.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The world comes to like the dawn<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And I have gone out like a light.<br /><br />The father stops speaking in verse. He takes a puff on a candle, holding it in his teeth like a flute while sinking pillow-like into the armchair.<br /><br />The first son enters and says: And he hasn’t even answered our question. Therefore he now turns to the pillow with a question:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Pillow pillow<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Tell us rather<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What is this thing called Frother.<br /><br />The pillow who is also the father:<br /> <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I know. I know!<br /><br />The second son asks in a hurry: <br /> <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then answer,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Wherefore speak you not.<br /><br />The third son, utterly incensed: <br /> <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In vain are you a widow, <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O comfortable pillow.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Reply.<br /><br />The first son:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;So answer.<br /><br />The second son:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Some fire here! Fire! <br /><br />The third son:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I am going to hang somebody, I can just feel it.<br /><br />The pillow, who is also the father:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A little patience,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then maybe I’ll answer all your questions.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I’d like to hear you sing. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Then maybe I’ll grow loquacious.<br /> <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I’m so exhausted.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Maybe art will give me a second wind.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Farewell, pedestal.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I wish to hear your voices set to music.<br /><br />Then the sons could not deny their father’s astounded request. They huddled together like cattle and broke into a universal song:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Big brat brother Brutus,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A marvelous Roman. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Everyone lies. Everyone dies.<br /><br />That was the first stanza.<br />The second stanza:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sang sank skittered stole <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A lonely tightrope walker.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;That acrobat. What gall. <br /><br />Third stanza:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The stallion<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In the netherworld<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Is waiting for the clarion. <br /><br />And as they sang, music resounded: wonderful, extraordinary and all-conquering. And it seemed as if there were room left in the world for various feelings. Like a miracle the sons stood around the unsightly pillow, and awaited with meaningless hope the answer to their unenviable and savage, imposing question: What is Frother? And the pillow now fluttered, now soared into the heavens like a candle, now ran through the room like the Dnieper. Father sat over the cow-wheat writing desk, and the sons stood against the wall like umbrellas. That’s what Frother is.<br /><br /><br /><div style="text-align:center;">PART THREE</div><br />The father sat atop a bronze steed while the sons stood at his sides. And the third son stood alternately by the horse’s face and the horse’s tail. As was apparent to him and to us, he felt out of place. And the horse was like a wave. No one spoke a word. They were speaking in thoughts. <br /><br />Now the father sitting on the steed and stroking his darling duck exclaimed mentally, flashing his eyes:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You’re waiting to hear what the father will blather.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Will he or won’t he explain what is Frother.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;O Lord I am a disconsolate widower, <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A sinless singer.<br /><br />The first son bending down picked up a five-kopeck piece from the floor. He moaned mentally and started flashing his feet:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Papa, the end is near. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I see a crown form above your ear. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Your breathing is tall and austere, <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You’re already a popsicle.<br /><br />The second son was just as gloomy. He bent down on the other side and picked up a ladies’ purse. Then he cried thoughts and started flashing his feet:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If only I were a priest <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Or a deceased released, <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I would have visited your court,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Almighty Lord.<br /><br />And the third son, standing at the horse’s tail and plucking at his mustaches with his thoughts, started flashing his feet:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where is the key to my mind? <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where is that ray of light, <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The sudden generosity of winter? <br /><br />And as he relocated to the face of the horse, which was like a wave, he smoothed his hair with his thoughts and started flashing his feet:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You see no eyebrows father,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;How barren are the bloodlines of Frother. <br /><br />Then the father took out of his pocket the barrel of a certain gun and, showing it to his children, exclaimed elated and loud, flashing his eyes:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Look: a gun barrel!<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It’s so big and unsterile! <br /><br />First son:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Where? How? Teach us—<br /><br />Second son:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Everywhere. Like finches.<br /><br />Third son:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The last fear<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;After mass<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Was past <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Crumbled to dust.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The gates of heaven then flew open. <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And a nanny came out of the barn.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She had two legs, one after another.<br /><br />And this again reminded everyone of their eternal question, namely:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;What is this thing called Frother?<br /><br />A horrible silence descended on everything. The sons lay strewn like candy across the night room, revolving their white grizzled occiputs and flashing their feet. Superstition overpowered them all. <br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The nanny had two legs, one after another.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;She hung in the room mercilessly smothered. <br /><br />The nanny began to put the father, who had turned small as a child’s bone, to bed. She sang him a song:<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Over your cradle, drool runs down your lips<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;And the moon lives.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Over the grave, over the pine<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sleep and repine.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Better not rise.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Better pulverize.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Hey there blacksmith jacksmith,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We’ll sleep in your forge.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;We’re all prisoners.<br /> <br />And as they sang, music resounded: wonderful, extraordinary and all-conquering. And it seemed as if there were room left in the world for various feelings. Like a miracle the sons stand around the father’s softly expired bed. They wish to repeat everything. We are terrified to look into his, so to speak, face. And the pillow now fluttered, now soared into the heavens like a candle, now ran through the room like the Dnieper. Frother is the cold froth forming on the dead man’s brow. It is the dew of death, that’s what Frother is.<br /><br />Dear God, the sons could have said if only they could. But we knew that already.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/aleksandr-vvedensky-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/aleksandr-vvedensky-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112639318085253241?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126383614430258682005-09-10T16:18:00.000-04:002005-09-10T16:20:14.433-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/aleksandr-vvedensky-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/aleksandr-vvedensky-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">[I REGRET THAT I’M NOT A BEAST]<br /><br />I regret that I’m not a beast,<br />running along a blue path,<br />telling myself to believe,<br />and my other self to wait a little,<br />I’ll go out with myself to the forest<br />to examine the insignificant leaves.<br />I regret that I’m not a star,<br />running along the vaults of the sky,<br />in search of the perfect nest<br />it finds itself and earth’s empty water,<br />no one has ever heard of a star giving out a squeak,<br />its purpose is to encourage the fish with its silence.<br />And then there’s this grudge that I bear,<br />that I’m not a rug, nor a hydrangea.<br />I regret I’m not a roof,<br />falling apart little by little,<br />which the rain soaks and softens,<br />whose death is not sudden.<br />I don’t like the fact that I’m mortal,<br />I regret that I am not perfect.<br />Much much better, believe me,<br />is a particle of day a unit of night.<br />I regret that I’m not an eagle,<br />flying over peak after peak,<br />to whom comes to mind<br />a man observing the acres.<br />I regret I am not an eagle,<br />flying over lengthy peaks,<br />to whom comes to mind<br />a man observing the acres.<br />You and I, wind, will sit down together<br />on this pebble of death.<br />It’s a pity I’m not a grail<br />I don’t like that I am not pity.<br />I regret not being a grove,<br />which arms itself with leaves.<br />I find it hard to be with minutes,<br />they have completely confused me.<br />It really upsets me terribly<br />that I can be seen in reality.<br />And then there’s this grudge that I bear,<br />that I’m not a rug, nor a hydrangea.<br />What scares me is that I move<br />not the way that do bugs that are beetles,<br />or butterflies and babystrollers<br />and not the way that do bugs that are spiders.<br />What scares me is that I move<br />very unlike a worm,<br />a worm burrows holes in the earth<br />making small talk with her.<br />Earth, where are things with you,<br />says the cold worm to the earth,<br />and the earth, governing those that have passed,<br />perhaps keeps silent in reply,<br />it knows that it’s all wrong.<br />I find it hard to be with minutes,<br />they have completely confused me.<br />I’m frightened that I’m not the grass that is grass,<br />I’m frightened that I’m not a candle.<br />I’m frightened that I’m not the candle that is grass,<br />to this I have answered,<br />and the trees sway back and forth in an instant.<br />I’m frightened by the fact that when my glance<br />falls upon two of the same thing<br />I don’t notice that they are different,<br />that each lives only once.<br />I’m frightened by the fact that when my glance<br />falls upon two of the same thing<br />I don’t see how hard they are trying<br />to resemble each other.<br />I see the world askew<br />and hear the whispers of muffled lyres,<br />and having by their tips the letters grasped<br />I lift up the word wardrobe,<br />and now I put it in its place,<br />it is the thick dough of substance.<br />I don’t like the fact that I’m mortal,<br />I regret that I am not perfect,<br />much much better, believe me,<br />is a particle of day a unit of night.<br />And then there’s this grudge that I bear<br />that I’m not a rug, nor a hydrangea.<br />I’ll go out with myself to the woods<br />for the examination of insignificant leaves,<br />I regret that upon these leaves<br />I will not see the imperceptible words,<br />which are called accident, which are called immortality,<br />which are called a kind of roots.<br />I regret that I’m not an eagle<br />flying over peak after peak,<br />to whom came to mind<br />a man observing the acres.<br />I’m frightened by the fact that everything becomes dilapidated,<br />and in comparison I’m not a rarity.<br />You and I, wind, will sit down together<br />on this pebble of death.<br />Like a candle the grass grows up all around,<br />and the trees sway back and forth in an instant.<br />I regret that I am not a seed,<br />I am frightened I’m not fertility.<br />The worm crawls along behind us all,<br />he carries monotony with him.<br />I’m scared to be an uncertainty,<br />I regret that I am not fire.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/aleksandr-vvedensky-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/aleksandr-vvedensky-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112638361443025868?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126383478450243722005-09-10T16:14:00.000-04:002005-09-10T16:17:58.453-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/nikolai-zabolotsky-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/nikolai-zabolotsky-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE TEST OF THE WILL<br /><br />AGAFONOV:<br />Please sit down, have some tea.<br />We have preserves in every pot.<br /><br />KORNEEV:<br />Among the dishes I distinguish<br />The English teapot.<br /><br />AGAFONOV:<br />Your eye, Korneev, has grown sharp,<br />You see the porcelain of England.<br />It has appeared in our cell<br />Since not so very long ago.<br />A friend entrusted it to my care<br />Out of a trunk full of tableware.<br /><br />KORNEEV:<br />Your discourse oversteps all measure,<br />O Agafonov, my heart’s companion,<br />I can’t believe it. No! This precious<br />Object, worthy of Pantheons,<br />This specter of luxurious Britain,<br />Whose bearing gratifies the eye,<br />Instructs the soul, enlightens reason,<br />Heals the infirm with art,<br />Melts the defenses of the heart,<br />While shining forth like a light—<br />How can it be? This elegant relic,<br />Redolent of a superior world, <br />Restores the sage in his monastic dwelling<br />With water colored by an herb?<br /><br />AGAFONOV:<br />Yes, it’s true.<br /><br />KORNEEV:<br />Good God!<br />An object of such leverage<br />Stands, full of poison,<br />Providing Agafonov with beverage!<br />To think it only: among handles<br />That are as graceful as meringue,<br />It could have subsisted in better conditions:<br />In state of worship, like an angel.<br />The sovereign of misty Albion<br />Would have installed it on a dais,<br />And sat before it, richly perfumed,<br />Whispering this dish’s praise.<br />The crown prince, in his very person,<br />Would enter its presence upon his tiptoes,<br />Considering it favor personal <br />To be allowed to tap its nose.<br />Instead, what have we here? Fictions!<br />Fallen into a modest hut,<br />This teapot offers us refreshment<br />Although you’re not a duke or a count.<br /><br />AGAFONOV:<br />Encyclopedias of lies<br />I’ve heard from sundry sycophants,<br />But from you, my friend Korneev,<br />I expected otherwise.<br />You judge, I swear, like a lunatic,<br />By passions woefully distorted.<br />The little vein upon your forehead<br />Pulsates with an unseemly tic.<br />This teapot—can it be the cause?<br />Then take it. Wherefore I need it?<br /><br />KORNEEV:<br />I thank you, sir.<br />Now I am quite calm.<br />Farewell. I am still weeping. (<span style="font-style:italic;">Exits.</span>)<br /><br />AGAFONOV:<br />My spirit hovers in the air,<br />My body lies in this cell,<br />And I invite the teapot back right now.<br /><br />KORNEEV:<br />(<span style="font-style:italic;">Enters</span>.)<br />Take back this teapot, Agafonov.<br />I shall abhor its sight forever.<br />I used to be a man of wisdom<br />But I am ruined now and lost.<br /><br />AGAFONOV:<br />(<span style="font-style:italic;">Embracing him</span>.)<br />Praise be to you, my friend Korneev.<br />Your spirit has vanquished this teapot!<br />Now, I beg you, please accept it<br />As my eager and earnest gift.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/nikolai-zabolotsky-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/nikolai-zabolotsky-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112638347845024372?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126383269408092192005-09-10T16:10:00.000-04:002005-09-10T16:16:00.166-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/nikolai-zabolotsky-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/nikolai-zabolotsky-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">ART<br /><br />A tree grows, reminiscent<br />Of a natural wooden column.<br />It sprouts members <br />Dressed in round leaves.<br />A congregation of such trees<br />Makes up a wood, a forest, a grove.<br />But the definition of a forest is imprecise<br />When we point out just its formal structure.<br /><br />A cow’s fat body,<br />Put on its four finials,<br />Crowned with a temple-like head<br />And a pair of horns (like the moon in its first quarter),<br />Would also be unclear,<br />Would also be unfathomable<br />If we forget about its significance<br />On the map of this world’s living beings.<br /><br />The house, a ligneous construction,<br />Put together as a cemetery of trees,<br />Constructed as a tabernacle of cadavers,<br />Akin to a gazebo of the dead,—<br />To whom of the mortals would it be intelligible,<br />To whom of the living would it be accessible,<br />If we forget a man,<br />Who had it cut and built.<br /><br />A man, the planet’s sovereign,<br />The ruler of the wooden forest,<br />The emperor of cow meat,<br />The Sebaoth of a two-story house,—<br />He governs the planet,<br />He clears the woods,<br />He slaughters the cow,<br />But cannot utter a word.<br /><br />But I, a monotonous man,<br />Took up to my mouth a shining pipe,<br />Blew, and, obedient to breath,<br />The words flew out into the world, becoming objects.<br />The cow cooked my porridge,<br />The tree read me a tale,<br />And the dead houses of the world<br />Jumped as if they were alive.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/nikolai-zabolotsky-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/nikolai-zabolotsky-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112638326940809219?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126316038184585652005-09-09T21:32:00.000-04:002005-09-09T21:33:58.186-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-de-la-torre-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-de-la-torre-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">HOW TO BE WELL DRESSED: AN INTERVENTION<br /><br />Whenever anyone comes upon Amy Vanderbilt she is invariably perfectly put together. “It takes time. I have to find it. Just to get my face on takes me an hour.” Few women can spend this disproportionate amount of time on their personal appearance.<br /><br />Amy Vanderbilt has it to spare. Her intelligence and thought allow her to present herself confidently for the world’s examination: a well-dressed, well-groomed product of her time. Listen to the cry of a liberated woman: “I did not throw my clothes on with a pitchfork!”<br /><br />She does amazing things with scarfs and pins and knows that a sense of style can be acquired. She knows that to be well dressed demands studious shopping, not haphazard flying trips to the stores…<br /><br />It all started in her closet. One day she was ruthless and, for once, got a clear picture of her wearable wardrobe. The rest was simply eliminated.<br /><br />THE LIFE SHE LEADS<br /><br />She sits down with pencil and paper and analyzes her life. What activities fill her days? Club affairs, Scouts, P. T. A.? She often does lunch, takes in a matiné. She holds neither a full nor part-time job. She’s a house and garden type who enjoys a once-a-week dinner date with her husband. She chooses clothes that suit her roles in life. For renewal she considers the well-dressed women who share her activities, analyzes their costumes detail by detail, and discovers what makes them chic. Despite this, she’s no carbon copy of every neighbor in the block.<br /><br />IN STEP WITH STYLE<br /><br />Amy Vanderbilt is in step with style. What does this mean to her? That she rushes right out and adopts a “new look”? She’s cautious when it comes to this query, her reaction: to wait and see. A truly “legitimate” fashion trend shapes up only gradually. Its life expectancy? About three years. Fashions come and fashions go. O but the shirtwaist dress, the Chanel suit, the English tweed suit, the trench coat, and of course, sweaters and skirts. Such classic clothes can always be counted on to wear and serve well. Listen to the cry of a liberated woman: “Fashion! That’s my slave!”<br /><br />A COLOR SCHEMING WOMAN<br /><br />Amy Vanderbilt has no doubt that colors have personality. She decides what colors she’ll wear as if she were planning a luncheon. Blue is universally appealing, orange is exciting (although sometimes irritating), yellow is gay, green is restful, red is friendly and outgoing. Navy, unlike black, has life. Black is not a wise choice for wear in Suburbia or country. When Amy Vanderbilt wears pastels she appears sweet, simple, and girlish.<br /><br />In her chart there’s enough columns to include the five basic types in the mind of a color scheming woman: blonds, brown-eyed brunettes, blue-eyed brunettes, redheads, and those with gray hair. Thanks to her chart her eyes are open to the wonderful world of colors and what they can do to dramatize her. When shopping she plays it safe by using swatches, certain that her memories, like most people’s, are color blind.<br /><br />FLATTERING FASHIONS<br /><br />To solve problems that are strictly figurative she relies on do and don’t tips. Since she has a full figure she wears clothes with vertical details that carry the eye up and down rather than across her figure. She avoids square and sweetheart necklines, shiny fabrics such as satin and clinging ones such as chiffon. No chokers, scarves or bibs for the short-necked!<br /><br />When Amy Vanderbilt spends seasons in the sun she’s not allowed to shed her girdle: it’s hot and uncomfortable but wearing it is the price she must pay for not counting calories with care. She often goes to the beach, so she doesn’t hesitate to wear a jacked over her blessed Lycra suit to camouflage bulges when she’s not in the swim.<br /><br />TRAVEL PLANS<br /><br />Once she spent 24 pre-jet hours in planes and at airports as she and her husband headed from New York to Egypt, where she was to meet her husband’s family in Cairo for the first time. Imagine facing this sort of meeting in a dress she’s literally slept in! But it was a knit and nary a wrinkle showed as she stepped out the plane at 6:30 a.m. (Cairo time)! Among other basics, she took with her a well stocked cosmetic travel kit, a hat to wear when visiting churches and a suit, handy for what the natives term an “unheard-of cold spell at this time of the year.” Listen to the cry of a liberated woman: “I’m not weighed down with luggage containing clothes I’ll never wear!”<br /><br />PERSONAL APPEARANCE<br /><br />Unaccustomed as she was to public speaking, there came a time when she had to step into the spotlight and introduce a guest speaker. She concentrated glamour in a smart-looking hat but made sure it sat securely on her head, it was free of wild-waving feathers and flowers that flounced every time she moved a muscle. Listen to the cry of a liberated woman: “I choose jewelry that provides no sound effects!”</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-de-la-torre-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-de-la-torre-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631603818458565?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126315930141841612005-09-09T21:28:00.000-04:002005-09-09T21:32:10.153-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-de-la-torre-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-de-la-torre-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">GOLFERS IN THE FAMILY<br /><br />A Brit exclaims “O to build character in a playground riddled with hazards! O gusts of wind, bumpy treeless fairways, deep bunkers, knee-high rough!”<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Golf should be played by the seashore</span> was the dictum Scots received from Nature. They have been much relieved to find this in accord with their Calvinist beliefs. Man is meant to suffer; never more than when he goes out to enjoy himself.<br /><br />Despite his preference for courses designed to penalize players who stray from the path from tee to green, an American claims “Games ought not to be played in moral gymnaseums: give me vistas, decorative ponds, token fairway bunkers!”<br /><br />(Far more than anybody else, Americans have found hanging watercolors of golf courses in the bathrooms of their homes in good taste. The choice of Walmart’s interior decorators to have them enliven restrooms, for example, must also have been informed by this longing for pastoral environments.)<br /><br />As in other developing countries, in Chinese boom towns the real business deals are done while playing golf. (My father says he tests potential partners by playing with them first. I wonder if he thinks he’s the only one keeping a close eye.) If in China the way of doing business is lubricated by guanxi, in Mexico, for instance, it’s lubricated by the drinks the caddy helpfully provides. (By the way, certain circumstances allow for betting to be considered business.)<br /><br />Whatever one’s nationality is one mustn’t forget the ancient maxim: <span style="font-style:italic;">Forget length when you’re in a bunker from hell; make sure you get out of it before you get ambitious.</span><br /><br />Wives and daughters of golfers around the globe identify with their being excluded from the game; they either don’t understand the language of golf or they speak it with far too much trepidation, making sure they don’t stray from the surface. They like that their men are out facing hazards, the familiarity between tea and tee, and the fraternal spirit of the handicap system.<br /><br />(Another aside: It is not infrequent for some women to picture men naked when they feel harassed by them. In their minds, men almost immediately lose their threatening power. Some men feel naked at the golf course, their weaknesses far from concealed. Golf outfits spell overcompensation.)<br /><br />Those who nervously flick remote controls tend to oversee the poetry of this far from telegenic game. Any player would sustain that more than any other sport, the aim of the game—to complete the course in the fewest possible strokes—looks infinitely easier than it is.<br /><br />Like its settings, the history of the game has been non-linear. Main controversies have involved, unsurprisingly, the introduction of technological advances into the game. Rubber-core balls were considered nearly prosthetic when they first appeared in 1898. Those who excelled at playing with the Indian gutta-percha balls stuck to them, assuming that the fashioning of their shots required far more artistry and improvisation. The gutty had in turn replaced the 400 year old feather ball which got soggy when wet and was stuffed with top-hatfuls of boiled feathers. (Bear in mind that while I write this someone is firing innumerable shots not far from here.) One can guess why balls needed to be nicked and cut in order not to duck quickly in flight. Indented and dimpled balls were far more resistant than smooth-surfaced ones, which would necessarily dent when banging trees and other hard surfaces.<br /><br />Speaking of birds, to see is to believe. Not wanting to soil the idea of golf as the game of eternal hope with its promised lands beyond every horizon, I’ll leave out the issue about the dead blackbirds, blue jays, coots, geese, grackles, gulls, mallards, robins, starlings, widgeons and other etceteras. Without enough information to prove that the pesticides used to enhance the greens’ greenness provide courses with bountiful doses of neurotoxins and mutagenic substances, why ruin people’s only chance to experience earthly paradise? Those 546 geese collected in a golf course in Hempstead at least can say they died in heaven. The reader should try to figure out whether snakes and rodents suffer from context disorder when the desert they dwell in is transformed into a tropical environment. <span style="font-style:italic;">Change or die!</span><br /><br />Let us tread upon a course where the cardinal rule of enlightened (and spartan, indeed) design is followed: a first class hole must present the player with an alternate route to the green.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-de-la-torre-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-de-la-torre-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631593014184161?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126314838188739832005-09-09T21:05:00.000-04:002005-09-09T21:13:58.190-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/michael-gushue-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/michael-gushue-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">HISTORIA<br /><br />At the battle of Cumae&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the wry Laodiceans<br />Were planning to do&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;their personal best<br />And this even though&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;they were only given<br />Palm fronds and pieces&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of bark for their weapons.<br /><br />After marking their bodies&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;in the three sacred places—<br />And, if they’d had them,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;they’d have rattled their spears—<br />They decided that waving&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the fronds about menacingly<br />Would strike fear in the hearts&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of the easily distracted.<br /><br />Striking their foreheads,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;they marched as a phalanx<br />Behind the Imagists&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and apostate Capuchins<br />Into the pass known&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;as Schroedinger’s cat<br />The way one sentence always&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;follows another.<br /><br />All set to exhort them,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Sirac drew out his sword<br />And called to the hoplites&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;in a voice like a camel:<br />“Remain indifferent&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;to politics, religion!<br />Whatever you do,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;keep your head above water!”<br /><br />A thousand years later,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;in the last of the battles<br />To unify that empire&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;called holy and roman<br />The frontal assault&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;is suddenly confused<br />By an army dressed&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;as magician’s assistants.<br /><br />“Who the hell are you?”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;yelled Barbarossa.<br />He seized the nearest&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;one by the throat,<br />With his eyes flashing&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;from beneath his brow,<br />And shook him around&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;like a doughnut of skin.<br /><br />“None of your beeswax,”&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;was the crumpled answer,<br />“Centuries from now&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;you’ll be remembered<br />As Snidely Q. Whiplash,&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;although with red hair,<br />While we, Freddy, we’ll&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;be as fashionable as ever.”</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/michael-gushue-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/michael-gushue-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631483818873983?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126314340805128462005-09-09T21:04:00.000-04:002005-09-09T21:05:40.806-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/michael-gushue-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/michael-gushue-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">MEETING THE BRITISH AT THE MUSEE DES BEAUX ARTS<br /><br />About the dead they were never wrong,<br />The old British: How well we met them,<br />Like two aged streams walking dully along<br />With the winter’s sky a lavender human<br /><br />Taking position in the lavender-blue snow:<br />I could hear an open window, or just the sound<br />Of someone eating buckskin far below,<br />On the street’s passionately frozen ground.<br /><br />How reverently we came together,<br />Waiting for a miraculous birth, waiting<br />For the children, no less than strangers,<br />Who did not specially want to be always skating,<br /><br />Or calling out in French: “C’est la lavande!”<br />I myself happened upon that green water—<br />Across the forest there was this pond.<br />It was at the wood’s edge last summer.<br /><br />Even so, even now, we will never forget,<br />During the martyrdom of the torturer’s horse,<br />That Colonel Untidy Spot, with his sobriquet<br />Of Willow-tobacco, said it must run its course<br /><br />Anyhow. He could not stomach our doggy life.<br />General Jeffrey Amherst had to go the way<br />Dogs usually go, in a clearing, and off in a tiff.<br />As for the unusual scratches along the quay,<br /><br />When the Colonel shook out his hand, innocent<br />As Brueghel’s Icarus, and did everything to provoke<br />Disaster, the ploughman’s scented kerchief,<br />Embroidered with six delicate fishhooks,<br /><br />Made them before its quite leisurely plash,<br />Before we heard the forsaken cry:<br />“Une mauve comme le ciel!” and before the cast<br />Sun shone tartan with smallpox, falling out of the sky.<br /><br />Disappearing beneath two blankets, the boy’s white legs<br />Shone as they had on the ship—the expensive<br />Musee des Beaux Arts—as white as eggs.<br />And what trinket would they see fit to give,<br /><br />Those old British, in their amazing azure<br />Coats, circling the frozen pond<br />To see somewhere something seen as failure<br />And calmly skate on.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/michael-gushue-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/michael-gushue-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631434080512846?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126313947121112192005-09-09T20:57:00.000-04:002005-09-09T20:59:07.123-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><div style="text-align:center;"><span style="font-style:italic">losanga</span></div><br /><br />The <span style="font-style:italic">Losanga</span> has neither hands nor feet; it has two insignificant legs overshadowed by its mouth, which is enormous. It plays the part of the bully otherwise it would be impossible since its mouth takes offence as ours breathes, smiles or greets. Whether or not it appears bad is, however, not clarified. Indeed, it strikes such fear that no one has the courage to verify if, beyond its teeth, this furious cavity also contains cordial offers.<br /><br />It’s trite to be afraid of it: its menacing air is so clear that it should, in fact, be simple to understand that you can be serenely confident. It’s certainly not what it appears, but rather the caricature of a childish nightmare from which it didn’t escape in growing up. It’s well-known, however, that its contemporaries all have a tendency toward laziness, and lacking in heroism, they prefer to cling to what’s manifested on surfaces, without investigating, at least for curiosity’s sake, how things actually are under what’s, most of the time, only an odious mask for the one who wears it. It’s the fault of mothers who raise little ones to be on guard, to distance themselves from novelty. Mightn’t that venomous grin be, for example, the result of a hereditary anger, the state of soul of one of its ancestors who has nothing to do with the bearer, like mountains the snow, and men, the fear of death?<br /><br />It lives among red, yellow and black, among lighted torches, on the hoods of friars, on the whetstone of knife-grinders, in the screech of skates on ice, in betrayals and expectations, but, frequently, it migrates so some see it in the word “Yes,” and others, in uncertainty. Those who see many of them get used to them and begin, even if it’s not of their species, to gnash their teeth while sleeping and to seldom bat an eye. Instead, those who live far away from its favorite places, meeting it sporadically, remain terrified each time and comfort themselves in food and warmth, instruments often suited for dispelling the memory of unpleasant things.<br /><br />Almost all of the <span style="font-style:italic">losanghe</span> are female; the males can’t manage so much fury in representing hostility and rancor. It seems strange, but it eats fruit-salad.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631394712111219?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126313797019933252005-09-09T20:52:00.000-04:002005-09-09T20:56:37.023-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><div style="text-align:center;"><span style="font-style:italic">frangenti</span></div><br /><br />You can go months without meeting a <span style="font-style:italic">frangente</span>: there are those who kill time fishing and those who decide to be sick so they can slip into bed and wait for the frangenti to rouse them like the Prince roused Sleeping Beauty in the woods. It can be the rock hurled from a catapult, a coin in the brook.<br /><br />The inhabitants of Bagno Cavallo find bunches of them in the crops. From this interesting fact, it can be deduced that common <span style="font-style:italic">frangenti</span> belong to the family of fungi, and that they therefore need, for their own well-being, the presence of a cool environment, barely dressed in light. Without someone who knows how to prepare them, they assume an abulic air, but, in reality like carnivorous plants, they’re ready to seize the gaze that settles on them. Something arises from the reflection, as if they had the power to produce in those that have deviated from carelessness an energetic push forward, an impulse to change the state of things.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic">Frangenti</span> inhabited the universe before men and any other living organism. It’s difficult to establish if the circulatory movement with which they flutter about on the earth’s crust follows a purpose, or if they too, like us, justify only gropingly the opportunity to founder, to sink or emerge. Studies maintain that moving in a circle has permitted man the leisure to extricate himself from the flora and the fauna with which he was going to come to blows. Others hypothesize that it was the <span style="font-style:italic">frangenti</span> to promote the birth of men in order to have someone who acts and puts history before indolence. There are, furthermore, those who assert that frangenti and men are the same thing.<br /><br />Southern <span style="font-style:italic">frangenti</span> are found in the fire-works that gush forth from the liquid eyes of the inhabitants of white, azure and pink houses, in the middle of the prickly pears whose leaves resemble tails of young beavers. The women of the place, dressed in black and hidden by the recurrent curves of the small sunny walls, vanish in the bluish fig-trees, in giant olive-trees, and hide behind the dramatics of bearing a row of thunderous teeth, and numerous winking looks.<br /><br />Children burst into flame there, gestures wriggle like clear water fish in futurist neighborhoods, bombarded at the corners with light.<br /><br />In the northern zones the <span style="font-style:italic">frangente</span> doesn’t possess a body. It makes so much noise that they all address their thought, their desire to it, but it’s left where it’s found because when they were ready there was no one with whom to share it. It has dark almond-shaped eyes that wander up and down. There’s one who still believes us, but to prevail it’s the irritation that sprouts sharpened among the roots of divans, on the importunate remains of drawing-rooms, where tresses of flowers, high up, establish the stillness of the house, a not innocuous museum of stolen steps, of suffocated stammering from the humming of the television always on.<br /><br />On the tops of the mountains, the <span style="font-style:italic">frangenti</span> are up against serious problems for the beaks of coupling birds are like swordsmen among the thin sheets of rocks. The <span style="font-style:italic">frangenti</span> have elaborated a defense that allows them to live there ar least a season, camouflaging themselves like petals in the not very fleshy corolla of edelweiss. It happens that men with pickaxes bent furtively to collect them without suspecting that they would slip into the vase on the fire-place an element contrary to the stasis, which day after day would modify the state of the soul of the room. Thus, no one will feel in the mood anymore for a game of cards or a drink of grappa in company, the gesture of drawing the chairs near the table or of uncorking the bottle will be cracked by an impression of emptiness and ridicule. Surely, it’s a question of silenced moods, repressed in the mind of he who notices them, refusing to comply with them.<br /><br />It’s then that the <span style="font-style:italic">frangenti</span> fatten, becoming exorbitant, and there’s no way to limit their undertaking until the person who hosts them decides to fling cards down on the table. Once the noise of something that’s going to pieces is perceived, they return to the mountaintops softened with snow, to the crests transparent with ice, to the trees hooded with white, to the impressions sunk in the paths, to the weight of silence on the intersected brow of the wood, to the bending of the highest branches, to the thin and intoxicating air, to the skin dotted with red.<br /><br />It’s amazing how, at times, instead of attributing the event that upsets our habits to the presence of a <span style="font-style:italic">frangente</span>, it makes us take it by the hand and lose a sense of proportion, without realizing that we’re thus playing exactly the game at which the <span style="font-style:italic">frangente</span> was aiming. Peculiar to it is, in fact, its wanting to be noticed, the arrogance with which it inserts itself into tranquility, the craving to be the protagonist. There are archaic <span style="font-style:italic">frangenti</span>, ancient as armadillos, stretched out in the prehistoric sun to rush more quickly against the body of an innocent person. It’s a sacrificial dynasty of <span style="font-style:italic">frangenti</span>, which exasperates and obscures.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631379701993325?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126313563636526642005-09-09T20:48:00.000-04:002005-09-09T20:52:43.653-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><div style="text-align:center;"><span style="font-style:italic">dentalinea</span></div><br /><br />Among the mimosa lives a strange animal that’s born wicked and then becomes good. But no one notices that it becomes good because it’s afraid that in showing itself to be kind someone will kill it. Its name is <span style="font-style:italic">Dentalinea</span>, and to all appearances, is delicate and charming because it mixes an austere and cantankerous aspect with a filling of sweetness and rash gaiety. When it’s bad it doesn’t eat, or does so secretly; when it’s good, even if no one knows, it vomits if the animals in its company don’t make it feel at ease. From when it’s born, <span style="font-style:italic">Dentalinea</span>’s in search of a family, but since it can’t see itself with its own eyes, it doesn’t know how to recognize those who are similar, and thus it mistakes species constantly. It lives in cities, dodged by the feet of the passersby like a banana peel. It crouches like a pebble in the streets illuminated by the venomous color of the traffic-lights and by the sudden headlights of the cars, lost, for most of the day, disturbed by the pigeons that swoop down like domestic vultures on the ticket stubs, thrown, crumpled up, into the gutter at the end of the show.<br /><br />It has untidy feathers between which remain hanging filaments of colors that its body magnetizes. With these feathers it paints sinuous bluish chasms, speckled with pink on bright purple, on skating-rinks, which the rain disperses later and the wind conducts toward the fields, from where they reappear in the spring like anemones. It’s not known why it does this; certainly its creativity must compensate for the languor it feels keeping locked up inside itself so much sweetness.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic">Dentalinea</span> dreams at night, gathers its wings under its head, and, like a paper umbrella without a handle, separates itself from the noises of the world when it’s tired, and goes to sleep. It dreams the continuation of the deeds that it has accomplished during the day and that it has always interrupted. If in the morning it put on a hat, in the dream it also wears an overcoat, socks and shoes; if it entered a store, in the dream it also bought many things; if it spoke with someone, in the dream it kissed him and held him tight. For this reason, <span style="font-style:italic">Dentalinea</span> prefers to sleep, because in dreams it’s not afraid of reaching the surfaces of life, of grazing them, of belonging to them. It’s in wakefulness, during the day, that walking among the feet of the passersby it doesn’t know how to behave, and thinks incorrect its way of looking at a shop-window, of holding the feathers around its body, of bending its head to one side when the sun strikes, or tiredness, or the difficulty of the game.<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic">Dentalinea</span> doesn’t migrate, having lost forever its sense of direction from when one of its ancestors had the distinct sensation that it could have dissolved without anyone noticing, since it never had any friends waiting for it at the station. Thus, it retraces the same itineraries every day.<br /><br />In Bessarabia, it’s captured and used as a fan on Thursdays in the sunny verandas on the harbors by the ladies who wait for boats laden with precious cloth. They close their beaks in small rings of turquoise and hold them in their hands by the snout, which is smooth like a castanet and comfortable for the grip of a female palm. Toward dinner time, they set them free in the direction of the fields of reaped wheat. Fragments of spikes left behind between the parched clods shudder around the soft plumage of this animal that chatters while it carries on.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/monica-sarsini-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631356363652664?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126311110568726962005-09-09T20:10:00.000-04:002005-09-09T20:14:55.530-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">FROM TERRA, HERE<br /><br />Ownership of the sphere is regrettably inscribed,<br />as are other particulars with diameters of possession,<br />as you possess me thus far, and I possess you right back,<br />all soundwaves and light stop in a digital outpouring,<br />circular then, about the heart, while time breaks<br />up into numbers and numbers. Oblivious of delineation,<br />a volume of air, or a mass of water, while we attend<br />mutual emptiness, a protractor draws a circle about itself.<br />An inscription drawn on your back, one finger traces<br />the amount of vertebrae. We foretell the past<br />through arrangement of ribs, think of others, even as<br />we walk over objects left on the ground, half-eaten<br />things like french fries scattered on water…<br />In a day saturated with physics, rain falls<br />with the regularity of years spent guessing events,<br />a glisson, we slide over a sidewalk broken with omens.<br />Even as we head uptown, and my hand moves<br />downward with a knowledge of numbers, our<br />conclusion hints at an equation laid out earlier in<br />a watery morning. We count birds out the<br />window while thinking of empty-headed circles.<br />It’s come round to this: a chance to fill up glasses<br />with a liquid we wouldn’t know was open-hearted.<br />Solid to the core, light plays over ceilings, spheres<br />of light as changeable as air blows through<br />windows. We spend the morning guessing interiors,<br />believing eyes are doorways, a chance<br />to scratch names into glass or into each<br />other’s vision. Would you believe a rotation<br />of spheres lay beyond our range<br />of perception? Or that through irises are colors<br />of imagination oceans, a chance to read <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;outside interiors, circles finding their beginning?</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631111056872696?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126311024721614012005-09-09T20:09:00.000-04:002005-09-09T20:10:24.726-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">TERRA, SPOKEN<br /><br />It’s a circle addressed, hung in midst<br />or hung in mist, as we speak about you,<br />you take more solid shape. A shadow of<br />a circle, umber-colored, with slight glow<br />at one side. The shadow cone moves across<br />your face and in color you turn grayscale,<br />or glowing, amber. It’s low light<br />on another planet, across from us,<br />or seen through the branches of a giant<br />fractal tree. It’s meant to indicate oceans or<br />a mountainous landscape that are not here. Terra,<br />flickering, or curved across a wall, faint, bent<br />as lightwaves move aside to allow it passage,<br />a sphere-shaped path from fragment to sun,<br />as our shadows fall not upon light source but<br />bend away from branches: the sky is always<br />the brightest element. You take more solid shape<br />as we are silent. Silence like what mountains<br />are made of: large empty circles piled one<br />upon another, conglomerate clusters empty<br />in middle or pyramids sans bases. Rendering<br />subsumes down, Terra, blue against shadows<br />of gray/umber/black. Bruised and spreading <br />beige-yellow, sand, red soil, white, aluminum.<br />Iron, nickel. Metal accompanies you upon<br />waking, or finely ground plastic dust. We <br />speak or don’t speak: coronas play against<br />the curve of the sun. Like many years away,<br />shapely, your face, not this one we’re watching,<br />Terra, or not watching, without circles, like<br />bright sky at night or aluminum reflecting fire,<br />like darker blue edges of continents. Your<br />face or spoken to each other, smaller <br />shadows as you speak, render.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631102472161401?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126310972143615782005-09-09T20:08:00.000-04:002005-09-09T20:09:32.146-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">MERCURY, LIQUID<br /><br />Though liquid, Mercury, you present as small impassable<br />matter that, first and electric orbit, in form of resembling<br />sphere, you only resemble and not needing, present no passage. <br />Your base is elusive, mistakable, and never musical. <br />Filled with nominal want you are available to be named <br />and named so that held in hand warmed and presenting <br />obstacle. You, obstacle, though liquid, present yourself,<br />unnamed and filled with words, near the horizon shining,<br />through unsteady atmosphere, unviewable, small <br />and refracted, liquid you present no presence yet<br />impassable, still matter, held in hand, warm and glowing<br />on horizon, possible that we’ve never seen you, <br />no detail in small eccentric presence matter,<br />named yourself and first in line, the first to see, and invisible<br />yet present in obstacle matter held in hand unviewable.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/marcella-durand-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112631097214361578?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126309828653360832005-09-09T19:47:00.000-04:002005-09-09T19:50:28.656-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE DAWDLE AFTER THE RAKE<br /><br />I am blank in the teeming of some crowd,<br />suckered usually by assuming I am not<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and this regard for myself, conquered<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;On a tram crossing plains decision’s like a pram’s<br />whistling behind it, the sidewalk has also felt<br />a catatonic’s whistle, they’ll <br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;recover the spark behind avoidance<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;as the metal wheels burn the asphalt<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the romantic thinks the baby might go flying<br /><br />or might have been already<br />anticipated when gruesome <br />went, it watered the genius in idiocy <br /><br />Rights, organs, false rights, they go where they can<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;not to find oars who grow wings and maul ducks <br />(arterial ducts!)&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;on the dirt, lettered by like walks</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112630982865336083?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126309662731067412005-09-09T19:46:00.000-04:002005-09-09T19:47:42.733-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE POLLEN’S ON THE RAKE<br /><br />Dawdle at the quarantined: they’ll <br />shut traps according to your nature<br />be it runny potency or idolatry as it antlers <br /><br />Hurry, the basic front to muteness we <br />see-saw, in jeopardy, the waterways <br />channel speech from stairwell to porch <br /><br />Screams about salted wounds grant<br />wish for towel of muscle or kinds of grace<br />(scrubbed, in travel, and unwitting) <br /><br />Dulled in some crowd they’ll <br />portrait others not as unsanctified, <br />others wholly fire-urgent, as they are read</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112630966273106741?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126309602230464722005-09-09T19:43:00.000-04:002005-09-09T19:46:42.233-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">ON THIS CANNIBAL<br /><br />In a movement called impossible<br />Bile permeates toilet water<br /><br />In a moment reeking, a senile wind—the crispy out of a holed joinery <br />Crept a buffalo in candlelight to the window<br /><br />Going down? Helping out? Mother says to Mary<br />Making friends? Get dirty, Eat Aggressor<br /><br />Tortoise as a hammer pliés meets the grand animal <br />On a day where one speck of orange grates<br /><br />Avatar—of narcissism, we meet a hairy fluff <br />To necktie contentedness, I dedicate<br /><br />Quiet as a sledgehammer in a dream<br />The usable artifacts shift <br /><br />Pounding metal to importing platinum<br />Plate investors, stainless century-whole-thing<br /><br />Mouth the brass goblets <br />As if making steel and buildings<br /><br />Alchemy hot dog stand and dog bath facilities<br />Heckled like fleas’ town<br /><br />An architecture’s future slobbered<br />Hard-earned moon time<br /><br />Gone: as Shakespeare’s father’s glove shop<br />Sheep stunned in the desert<br /><br />Or the tundra<br />Arctic nobodies, growing<br /><br />Walk to the wholesale market <br />Leaves wool suspended, we’ve never had belief <br /><br />In the legalization of sex!<br />Butter, Viola, and the bread, too placed on your face<br /><br />Those with an inferior taste-test product fizz actual consumption:<br />The carnies of rapid editing<br /><br />Or a shelf of family-owned disabled <br />Care-taking mutton cursers, say<br /><br />Quartering meat as if their own<br />Survival of the meteor shower is so clean<br /><br />Let’s murmur to our calves, well, I guess<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I’d eat you<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If the money were right</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112630960223046472?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126309427723868062005-09-09T19:41:00.000-04:002005-09-09T19:57:00.416-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><br />Attempting to quantify our ballooning:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I get this much space fortified at long last by attorneys<br />who pen the sidewalks from a sandy boat <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;(that’s their <span style="font-style:italic;">minds!</span>)<br />the sand lacerated as <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ballooning in and out of the daily walk<br />is either rising up by oily engine <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;or plain muttering to oneself in several intonations<br />fabric gathers, becomes hesitant<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;—weak—<br />that’s installing the idiot<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;in a man otherwise seen as humble</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112630942772386806?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126309290281427652005-09-09T19:38:00.000-04:002005-09-09T19:58:26.720-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;In herons and large circle plots are baby <br />ones, and in empathy is textbook, <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;which I feel nothing for,won’t and tend to tell<br />my loved ones of finality in trees<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;not relationships via <span style="font-style:italic;">experience</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112630929028142765?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126309134557577732005-09-09T19:33:00.000-04:002005-09-09T19:57:33.973-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The apartment stinks of magnolia<br />The book unfinished at the typewriter<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A Genet maid dressed<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Laid out on a wooden bench awaiting a one-toed<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Professor, I have a headache!</span> The apartment glows<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Grass—trees—laborer—butterfly—blackbird! <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Green consequent sun<br />A monopoly on the morass of bowing fans</div><br /><br /><a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/corina-copp-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span></span><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112630913455757773?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126222185726192902005-09-08T19:28:00.000-04:002005-09-08T19:34:21.676-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p7.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">QUIVERING IN THE COMMON WORLD <br /><br />like the world’s largest record player<br />skipping at the center of the earth<br />the street’s tilted axis underneath<br /><br />loops chorded grace into each gauzy<br />room, space tinted large and currant-like<br />quivering in the common alpine ling<br />veiled with the smell of alpine ling<br /><br />underneath the street<br />dark river of nonstick surfaces<br />palms press its banked science<br /><br />pieced together over smoke<br />which is both inanimate and alive in its<br />dissipation, an echo of sleep’s mesmeric page<br />resounds from that first glimpse</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p7.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112622218572619290?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126222133338935462005-09-08T18:55:00.000-04:002005-09-08T19:34:05.460-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p8.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">BLOCKED BY THE BARGE<br /><br />a departing shape the year turns<br />counterpoint a name clock a narrative<br />the sea and my brain give up<br />an identifying mark every year<br />slipping into anonymity from forms<br />recognizable to the self misplaced<br />scale of person-slash-building-slash-ocean<br />pressing through the Miss Ellis Island<br />and the Coast Guard machine guns <br />navigate a rough slipped surface<br />drop a plumb line, see corresponding<br />gravities settle downward<br />blimp in the sky moves out of sight<br />juggled by a distant volume</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p8.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112622213333893546?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126219253521088582005-09-08T18:38:00.000-04:002005-09-08T19:33:50.873-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p7.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">2.4.04<br /><br />A stutter fades<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;shelved note<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;light tipped in my pocket<br /><br />tunneling to Virginia<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;secret terminal recipe<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;all parts waiting<br /><br />a metaphor for soup<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;who is there<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;making it make itself<br /><br />into tradition a song<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;hanging from above<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;printed like money</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p7.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112621925352108858?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126219117985862102005-09-08T18:35:00.000-04:002005-09-08T19:33:34.966-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">2.3.04<br /><br />Opened by force<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;a small medical object<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;an ordinary body miracle<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;slow moving taxi<br /><br /><br />well rested among objects<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;like a sudden awareness of your face<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I am not at home within<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the fog of waiting<br /><br /><br />5th Avenue houses<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;a sleep with string<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;interior sounds casual<br /><br /><br />on another planet’s<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;fine serialized sand<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the elevators move<br /><br /><br />a city-wide parallel conspiracy<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;aligned and abundant, wordless<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;stents for city-flux<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;rocket science as we hold the door</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112621911798586210?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126218947727583222005-09-08T18:32:00.000-04:002005-09-08T19:33:17.706-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">2.1.04<br /><br />El Dorado <br /><br /><br />faded coloration attacks<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the pace a sentence makes <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;where villains<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;hide like church bells<br /><br /><br /><br />women in epic shape<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;an informational matrix<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;device to move the plot<br /><br /><br /><br />remove your hat<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;skim the top<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;window swimming<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;underneath your mask</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112621894772758322?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126218754693426622005-09-08T18:30:00.000-04:002005-09-08T19:32:59.250-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">1.31.04<br /><br />The sprawl a faking structure cut into like cake and lifted out<br />organic and stream-like, winding over concrete.<br />I can recognize a biopsy of suburban uplift, fable covered<br />with surface skin of misrecognition; forget the legal codes<br />directing traffics of wealth from one generation to another.<br />There are two platforms to this level playing field.<br />In California the road slowly washes into the ocean, filling with fog<br />at night. Brown covers gray gravel when it rains falling falling<br />through the hairnet-covered boulders. The sea pulls us<br />into it, even ancient dirt, and root structures wind into clear air<br />off the cliff’s edge. Hesitate and they fade from visibility 3,000<br />miles away about to take apart time in fragile patterns—dowels<br />stacked into shape support invisibility—little abutments of a personal<br />narrative like pink tar points the way from where you were.<br />Made dirty on purpose, all forks are smoothed over; once decisions<br />are made those possibilities seal up the air. Look over a shoulder<br />the road snakes along, a stream, the force of nature behind it.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112621875469342662?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126218829248050792005-09-08T18:28:00.000-04:002005-09-08T19:32:40.100-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">PEONY MONUMENT<br /><br />my eyes a store of violent resources<br />a film over vision<br />inside your dark vehicle<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;piled red mist<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;manifold surface meadows<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;in secret: little brisk<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and tumbling<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;legs give way<br /><br />between meals squeamish<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;bench-like seeing<br /><br />my weight fall through<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;a perfectly natural defense<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;covered over with sky</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112621882924805079?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1126218488029301992005-09-08T18:20:00.000-04:002005-09-08T19:31:35.340-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p8.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">MOST OF ALL, THE ROUNDNESS OF <br />PLANETARY DIMENSIONS<br /> <br />Most of all, the roundness of planetary dimensions<br />under largesse duress<br />presence in the open causeway of sky<br /><br /><br />standing on the page on the mountain kitchen countertop<br />metal duct-way<br />heft<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;in the thru-space—grass<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;held up or under by fragile wires<br /><br /><br />red balloons mark<br />decadence in purple <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;fat loops suspend <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;ghost skyline pathway</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p8.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/09/karen-weiser-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112621848802930199?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124842465895706372005-08-23T20:08:00.002-04:002005-09-07T21:18:54.633-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><div style="margin-left:40px">FIGHTER<br /><br />How<br />lousy<br />it is to<br />lose you<br /><br />to<br />years<br />of mellow<br />behavior<br /><br />I am<br />the same<br />fighter<br />as before<br /><br />reciprocal<br />affinity<br />molded<br />me.</div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112484246589570637?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124842462299507322005-08-23T20:08:00.001-04:002005-09-07T21:18:44.226-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><div style="margin-left:40px">I NOW SWEAR<br /><br />Because<br />I read widely<br />and was<br />carried away<br /><br />pounding<br />at a desk<br />the center<br />of existence<br /><br />I held<br />to the habit<br />of longing<br />for someone<br /><br />to whom<br />I now swear<br />that texture<br />is no problem<br /><br />it’s softer<br />when I say<br />the mood<br />is off me<br /><br />but because<br />I am being eased in<br />backs<br />stiffen.</div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112484246229950732?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124842460261252322005-08-23T20:08:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:18:34.570-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><div style="margin-left:40px">IT’S A SMALL WORLD AFTER ALL<br /><br />I and<br />words contain<br />the whole<br />world<br /><br />I’m looking over<br />some pretty young<br />handwriting<br />here<br /><br />pain obliterates<br />notice of the world<br />it surgically<br />changes ideas<br /><br />for my finale<br />children of all nations<br />sing our theme song<br />It’s A Small World After All.</div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112484246026125232?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124842471788386262005-08-23T20:07:00.001-04:002005-09-07T21:18:23.416-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><div style="margin-left:40px">THE LITTLE DAUGHTERS<br /><br />Little daughters<br />in the middle of the night<br />why are you not<br />asleep again yet?<br /><br />The stomping ground<br />must always die down<br />and be<br />curtained away!<br /><br />But we don’t mind<br />being looked at<br />we like it!<br /><br />We lie awake<br />for hours<br />with happiness actually.</div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112484247178838626?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124842468772676832005-08-23T20:07:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:18:13.156-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><div style="margin-left:40px">FASCINATION<br /><br />The faith<br />I had<br />in the depth<br />of your mood<br /><br />it was<br />so small<br />it was nothing<br />but trouble<br /><br />to doubt<br />some part<br />is to<br />believe the rest<br /><br />not<br />a bad start<br />and the road<br />is endless.</div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112484246877267683?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124842177096742152005-08-23T20:06:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:18:03.193-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><div style="margin-left:40px">NOMAD’S LANE<br /><br />I am<br />stuck<br />in a traffic<br />jam<br /><br />a cloud<br />shadow<br />courses<br />across<br /><br />I cop<br />at a restop<br />I am<br />dream<br /><br />free<br />and the road<br />leaps out<br />to me<br /><br />o<br />paired dots<br />of raw<br />lights<br /><br />and<br />unknown<br />crosswind<br />options<br /><br />where<br />a parked<br />car<br />rocked<br /><br />a fog<br />cushion<br />nudges<br />a prison<br /><br />people<br />go<br />through<br />a duffle<br /><br />they<br />age and move<br />out of<br />the way<br /><br />the<br />ashes<br />of high<br />officials’<br /><br />dunes’<br />forms<br />evolve<br />and move.</div></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/steve-malmude-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112484217709674215?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124758272437812042005-08-22T20:46:00.000-04:002005-09-07T20:59:55.350-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/sydney-dobell-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/sydney-dobell-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">WIND<br /><br />Oh the wold, the wold,<br />Oh the wold, the wold!<br />Oh the winter stark,<br />Oh the level dark,<br />On the wold, the wold, the wold!<br /><br />Oh the wold, the wold,<br />Oh the wold, the wold!<br />Of the mystery<br />Of the blasted tree<br />On the wold, the wold, the wold!<br /><br />Oh the wold, the wold,<br />Oh the wold, the wold!<br />Oh the owlet’s croon<br />To the haggard moon,<br />To the waning moon,<br />On the wold, the wold, the wold!<br /><br />Oh the wold, the wold,<br />Oh the wold, the wold!<br />Oh the fleshless stare,<br />Oh the windy hair,<br />On the wold, the wold, the wold!<br /><br />Oh the wold, the wold,<br />Oh the wold, the wold!<br />Oh the cold sigh,<br />Oh the hollow cry,<br />The lean and hollow cry,<br />On the wold, the wold, the wold!<br /><br />Oh the wold, the wold,<br />Oh the wold, the wold!<br />Oh the white sight,<br />Oh the shuddering night,<br />The shivering shuddering night,<br />on the wold, the wold, the wold!</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/sydney-dobell-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/sydney-dobell-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112475827243781204?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124758240349988912005-08-22T20:45:00.000-04:002005-09-07T20:59:27.133-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/sydney-dobell-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/sydney-dobell-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">TO DR. SAMUEL BROWN.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;January 1, 1851<br /><br />Are we not all tyrants at heart? Those Neros of Rome and Nicholases of Russia, whom I have cursed a thousand times in my soul, and on whom I cry again, in passing, the Anathema Maranatha of mankind—are they not the type of me and of everyone of us? Here have I been wishing devoutly that the Cheltenham people had but one neck that into the mouth thereunto appertaining I may put the despot’s bit.<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;…And you really fancy that you are to come into these waters and cast anchor in any port but mine! What! near the enchanted island, and play chess anywhere but in Prospero’s cell. Improbe! the winds and waves should avenge me; steer as you will, the conscious waters shall dash you on my door-step. Babble not of hotels and boarding-houses; the ‘laws of nature’ are suspended as to you. Everyone you ask shall look askance at you. Every <span style="font-style:italic;">down</span> bed shall give you <span style="font-style:italic;">up</span>, freezing or melting you shall be everywhere fla-gellated and <span style="font-style:italic;">refused</span>. An <span style="font-style:italic;">out</span>cast from every <span style="font-style:italic;">Inn</span>, you shall pace the streets that estreat you to me, kick at doors that, <span style="font-style:italic;">recalcitrating</span>, shall <span style="font-style:italic;">export</span> you, considerably soured: ‘Multum et terris jactatus et alto,’ you shall be driven southward <span style="font-style:italic;">halting</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">terrified</span>, and finally, being in the last dilemma, shall at length choose the Coxhorne of it. Moreover, my Miranda shall afflict you with ‘stitches,’ and for me I will quelch you in the ‘knotted cleft’ of everyone of my ‘Pines.’<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Forgive me. ‘Venus’ is truly ‘under eclipse,’ but does not pause in her orbit. She ‘moves for all that,’ Galileo… I like the frank simplicity with which you catechize me. My answers shall be as limpid.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/sydney-dobell-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/sydney-dobell-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112475824034998891?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124757363138708432005-08-22T20:31:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:16:52.316-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><span style="font-style:italic;">from </span>ETC.<br /><br />I<br /><br />I barely felt the mortar<br />& its range,<br />the radar’s blade<br />& net<br /><br />make<br />sound-maps of the spirit<br />covert helmets of desire<br />pliability<br /><br />diameter and aim<br />on the arc access of dawn<br />I felt alone<br />beneath the noise of piano keys<br /><br />I pointed to the sky<br />serene light, far away<br />I only saw<br />your arms<br /><br />upon the bedroom wall<br />lamps at rest<br />the space<br />capsules & horizon<br /><br />sigdasys sucked<br />decapitated heads <br />& the extraordinary star <br />cut into itself with solid color<br /><br /><br />2<br /><br />I made to pick the flower <br />half-wall<br />arm between the gates<br />I made for the green<br /><br />stems<br />of Orange Cosmos<br />consolation of the sun or forget-me-not blue<br />at the fingertips<br /><br />white narcissus petals<br />in themselves intact <br />beyond the fence<br />a stalk with heavy leaves<br /><br />strikes a worthless<br />constellation, look at<br />fire talking like a sandhill<br />maybe it’s a panther<br /><br />& not only an idea<br />changing its own shape<br />& touching its own nucleus<br />stars are in a landing-pattern<br /><br />in my eye, <br />palette, blemish<br />like for excess stab-wounds in the body<br />safety in numbers<br /><br /><br /><br />3<br /><br />I tried to follow, steps<br />voices, in the marble<br />red, leaves, of maple<br />in this wall, of The Art…<br /><br />or in the garden of<br />Frank Lloyd Wright in Oak<br />Park, that green, thin pale<br />marine blue held<br /><br />the color of the sky,<br />I tried to understand the sun<br />yellow leaves<br />still beamed with sap<br /><br />on a street<br />noticed anything the actual color of gold<br />in contrast<br />will dry in a while<br /><br />competing<br />with autumn, red<br />like a pocket<br />sunset<br /><br />in a steel frame,<br />before falling,<br />a red-haired girl<br />maybe Nolde<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">Chicago 10/2000</span><br /><br /><br /><br />4<br /><br />I tried to understand the figure<br />of the yellow horse<br />in the Museum of Art…<br />morning, in the Park<br /><br />(parrot beaks advancing far<br />beyond the fence, another street,<br />leaves of blood)<br />I tried to capture, as much as possible<br /><br />wolf & squirrel<br />unique & reciprocal<br />& almost Buddha-like<br /><br />snorting horse<br />a cloud, sight not missing<br />a beat, floating, gusts of<br />red, in the sky, petals<br /><br />of the flamboyant<br />I tried to understand the light<br />& its tall horse<br />the color & its mute horse<br /><br />in a painting<br />painted by Nolde<br />beyond the window<br />rain or shine<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">São Paulo, 11/2000</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112475736313870843?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124757067504556402005-08-22T20:29:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:16:35.990-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">FOURTH POEM<br />(DENSELY CANINE JERK)<br /><br /><br />Flowers let off fear<br />color rage<br />magnolias let off silence<br />nervous tulip,<br /><br />fear languages<br />crazy leafs<br />of calendula with no January<br />remorse of the cosmos<br /><br />for having arrived at the sun<br />the rose and its<br />scents, arid<br />terrified<br /><br />shade of begonia<br />hortencia’s blue,<br />recoiling vine,<br />tense<br /><br />chrysanthemums in panic<br />red petals of rodondendrum <br />stirred <br />not by wind.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112475706750455640?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124756963394370362005-08-22T20:27:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:16:26.550-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">SONG (4)<br /><br />How often fingers<br />pinched at the nails<br />sun ducking the walls<br />how many silent<br /><br />turns with himself<br />how often there<br />right in mud’s orient<br />how often aspired<br /><br />to be Rimbaud and trafficked<br />aspirin<br />so the days passed, severe,<br />as absence<br /><br />today?, yesterday?, how often<br />the windmill blades don’t turn<br />love was for words, among them<br />cold star that errupts</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112475696339437036?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124756838538371702005-08-22T20:26:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:16:17.850-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">SONG (7)<br /><br />Enough of disciples <span style="font-style:italic;">wishful thinking</span><br />including Leminski<br />Enough! of Leminski<br />the I-don’t-argue-with-destiny<br /><br />the whatever-happens-happens<br />or the let’s-surf-all-the-waves<br />(times were different<br />and now guerillas<br /><br />against)<br />take ownership today, <br />for the hollow revolt of rude couples<br />visionaries of curly psychedelia<br /><br />Sony and Wall Street brokers<br />Enough of followers<br />of “my forward step / I left behind”<br />Yes, old odd numbers, still that teach<br /><br />(hush to noise<br />and no! Enough,<br />the new and now, to this<br />Leminski-song)</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112475683853837170?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124756759932344412005-08-22T20:20:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:16:09.256-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE ALLEY OF INTENT<br /><br />A star does without<br />A sun discharges lamps at night<br />flamboyants<br />board the roof of the corner home<br /><br />there are black legumes, & seeds,<br />blue dawn<br />red fronds of venus<br />on the fence,<br /><br />from the stone, a bush startles, tall,<br />like a shade<br />a dog in passing chews a bone<br />carnations smell a lot<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">for Bruna</span><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">Paraty, 12/7/2000</span></div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/rgis-bonvicino-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112475675993234441?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124419995029787842005-08-18T22:35:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:16:00.596-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(back to germ 6/7)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">ON VVEDENSKY<br />Excerpts from <span style="font-style:italic;">The Star of Absurdity</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">The Stages of Understanding</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">In the late 1920s Aleksandr Vvedensky and Daniil Kharms founded the last of Leningrad avant-garde poetry groupings—OBERIU—which disbanded upon their first arrest in 1931. For the philosopher Yakov Druskin, Vvedensky’s school friend, OBERIU was an “exoteric organization, a group of poets who gave readings together,” whereas the real creative center were the chinars, an underground “esoteric union” which, apart from Druskin, Vvedensky and Kharms, also included the philosopher Leonid Lipavsky and the poet Nikolai Oleinikov. The only member of the group to have survived the Stalinist purges and the war, Druskin saved his friends’ writings and passed them on to posterity. For the young members of the sixties underground, Druskin, as the last chinar and a profoundly original Christian existentialist philosopher, became a living window unto an eradicated world. What follows is a selection of Druskin’s studies of Vvedensky’s poetry, composed in the last decade before his death in 1980.</span><div style="text-align:right;">—<span style="font-style:italic;">Eugene Ostashevsky</span></div><br /><br /><br />The theme of these remarks is Vvedensky’s absurdity [<span style="font-style:italic;">bessmyslitsa</span>]. (1) One cannot understand absurdity: absurdity understood is no longer absurdity. Nor can one look for the meaning of absurdity: the meaning of absurdity is the same absurdity as absurdity itself, or greater. What then can one say about absurdity and how can one define the theme of these remarks? <…><br /><br />For Fichte, existential understanding also included the comprehension of the incomprehensible as incomprehensible. Vvedensky would have said: the incomprehension of the incomprehensible as incomprehensible [<span style="font-style:italic;">neponimanie neponiatnogo kak neponiatnogo</span>]. There is neither scepticism nor nihilism in this: Vvedensky’s incomprehension, just as his absurdity, is not a negative but an affirmative notion. <…> He once said to Lipavsky: “I raised my hand against concepts, against initial generalizations that no one previously had touched. Thereby I performed, you might say, a poetic critique of reason—more fundamental than that other, abstract critique,” i.e. that of Kant. The comparison with the <span style="font-style:italic;">Critique of Pure Reason</span> is not haphazard. Vvedensky’s poetry touches on epistemology: it is epistemology by poetry. He once said: “one shouldn’t speak of poems as beautiful or not beautiful, but as true or false.” Twenty years later Schoenberg will say the same thing: “When the arts flourish, they are evaluated according to the criteria of true or false; when they are in decadence, they are evaluated as beautiful or not beautiful.” In another conversation with Lipavsky Vvedensky said: “I am reading Veresaev’s book on Pushkin. (2) It’s interesting how witness testimonies contradict each other even about things that cannot be subjective. Dubiousness and resistance to our logical parameters are present in life itself. And I can’t understand how there appear worlds so fantastic as to manifest exact laws, as to be so entirely unlike real life. Take, for example, a meeting or a novel. A novel describes life, there time seems to flow but it has nothing in common with real time: there’s no change of day and night, characters easily recall almost their whole lives whereas in fact one can rarely recall even yesterday. Anyhow, all descriptions are incorrect. ‘A man sits, there’s a ship over his head’ is still more true than ‘a man sits reading a book’.”<br /><br />In his statements on poetry Vvedensky moves past the limits of epistemology and into ontology. He could have said, with Igor Stravinsky, that art does not express anything, that it is a union with what is. He did not want poetry only to perform a verbal miracle, he wanted it to be an authentic miracle. Hence he did not consider the poetic world he created to be fantastical or overwrought [<span style="font-style:italic;">zaumnyi</span>]; on the contrary, the everyday “normal” view of the world and of life appeared fantastical and overwrought to him. Reading one popular article, he said: “My poetry isn’t <span style="font-style:italic;">zaum</span>, but this article is.” (3) <…><br /><br />Vvedensky <…> lived in the now, lived, as he said, with the latest poem he wrote. All the previous pieces made no difference to him at that point. He would lose them or give them to somebody, and then forget to take them back. This is how all his poems of 1934-1935 got lost, the ones that were in the keeping of A. S. I. In 1936 he stopped seeing her, but the poems stayed in her room. She held onto them for several years and then burned them. (4) It’s hard to say what part of Vvedensky’s work survived—at best, I think, no more than a quarter. <…><br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">Chinars, chinar art.</span> <…> “<span style="font-style:italic;">Chinar</span>, <span style="font-style:italic;">authority</span> of absurdity”: this was how Aleksandr Vvedensky signed his poems in 1925-1926. <…> Vvedensky’s friend Daniil Kharms was also a <span style="font-style:italic;">chinar</span>; in those years he referred to himself as “<span style="font-style:italic;">chinar</span> the eyer” [<span style="font-style:italic;">chinar’—vziral’nik</span>]. <…> Apparently, the word <span style="font-style:italic;">chinar</span> derives from the word chin, rank: what is meant is a certain divine rank, called upon to substitute the human series by the divine <…>. (5) <span style="font-style:italic;">Chinar</span> art liberates art from psychologism in the Husserlian sense. <span style="font-style:italic;">Chinar</span> art may be investigated and defined absolutely, historically and in its particular cases.<br /><br />Absolutely: How can the divine series be introduced into art, how does it realize itself? <span style="font-style:italic;">Chinar</span> art is associated with the following concepts: “the star of absurdity” (Vvedensky), (6) the absurd and the paradox (Kierkegaard), the foolishness of God (St. Paul).<br /><br />Historically: As a concept, the foolishness of God arose in the first century, the absurd and paradox in the nineteenth, absurdity and its analogues— non-figurativeness, atonality, athematicity and so forth—in the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of twentieth. Did <span style="font-style:italic;">chinar</span> art exist prior to the twentieth century? What is the difference between old “<span style="font-style:italic;">chinar</span>” art and modern <span style="font-style:italic;">chinar</span> art?<br /><br />I will not attempt these questions for now, limiting myself to particular cases: Webern and Schoenberg, Vvedensky and Kharms are all <span style="font-style:italic;">chinar</span> art. <…> In their art, they thought neither in emotional or aesthetic tonalities (beautiful vs. not beautiful), nor in psychological categories in general, but in chinar categories: the true vs. the false. This is why their art cannot be separated from philosophical, or rather philosophical and religious, questions. For example, already in the twenties Vvedensky used to say: “I am interested in three things: time, death and God.” Kharms said: “There are two lofty things: humor and holiness.” Also the phrase he repeated in the month before his arrest: “to kindle woe around yourself.” (7) <…><br /><br />Almost every phrase of Vvedensky’s poetry has the main direction of thought and also the defect [<span style="font-style:italic;">pogreshnost’</span>], the word that transgresses against the main meaning. His poems are two-dimensional, and frequently even multidimensional. This is what real spirituality [<span style="font-style:italic;">dukhovsnost’</span>] is: speech either abstract or oblique, freed from sentimentality, as Kierkegaard said. In this lies Vvedensky’s atonality and, more exactly, his dodecaphony, since there is also tonicization in the main direction. <…><br /><br />Vvedensky used to say: time (and life) are irrational and incomprehensible. This is why to really understand time (and life) one must not understand them. (8) In this lies the meaning of his absurdity. His position lies <…> closest to the apophatic theology of Dionysius the Areopagite, the <span style="font-style:italic;">via negativa.</span> (9) Hence the majority of Vvedensky’s pieces are eschatological and God appears in almost each one. This is linked to the sense of instability of one’s place and condition in the world and in nature. Such instability is neither political nor social, but ontological: on the ruins and fragments of all. <…><br /><br />Let us take <…> one of Vvedensky’s poems: “Rug-Hydrangea” (“I regret that I am not a beast…”). There are some absurdities here, occasionally ones you can make sense of. But this poem also forms an exception in Vvedensky’s oeuvre: it is the most lyrical, in some way the most personal of all his pieces. And it is written almost entirely without rhyme, in free verse, which Vvedensky never does. Vvedensky called “Rug-Hydrangea” a philosophical tractatus. This fact does not contradict its lyricism: “Rug-Hydrangea” is a lyrical philosophical tractatus. But why philosophical? Vvedensky here is interested in what we were all interested in, in what Lipavsky and I called neighboring existences, neighboring worlds. “Rug-Hydrangea” intersects with Lipavsky’s meditations on neighboring worlds (I simply call them L-worlds) and with my Messengers. Perhaps this is why Vvedensky told me: “Rug-Hydrangea is a philosophical tractatus, you should have written it.” This does not mean that I could have written it. This means that Rug-Hydrangea has themes I touched on as well. In that sense, Lipavsky could have written it. And also Kharms, and Oleinikov. <…><br /><br />Let us take one more of Vvedensky’s pieces: “Frother”. It is among his most perfect pieces; Lipavsky considered it the best thing Vvedensky ever wrote. Here the star of absurdity is given full reign. Perhaps nowhere else does Vvedensky achieve such a perfect and clear—both semantically or morphologically, and architectonically—construction of the star of absurdity; nowhere else does he reach such rigorously logical alogicality and completely uninterpretable absurdity. In that sense, “Frother” too forms an exception in Vvedensky’s oeuvre <…>. Many of Vvedensky’s pieces could be called mystery plays. They are not imitations, not stylizations, but rather modern mystery plays, abstract drama, abstract theater that Vvedensky created 20-30 years prior to Beckett and Ionesco. Admittedly, in some few pieces Vvedensky is inspired by or parodies Russian seventeenth-century folk drama <…>. But for the most part his mystery plays are altogether original, independent and modern. And perhaps this applies to “Frother” most of all. “Frother” is a mystery pantomime with short monologues and dialogues by the characters. I already said that Vvedensky’s pieces are polyphonic. I’ll add that they are also musical. Vvedensky himself thought his work could be set to music. Music could be written for “Frother”: then it would be a pantomime ballet with a reader and singers. (10)<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">(edited and translated by Eugene Ostashevsky)</span><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />ENDNOTES:<br /><br />1) <span style="font-style:italic;">Bessmyslitsa</span> literally means that which is devoid of sense (bez smysla). To translate the word as “nonsense” would point too closely at Edward Lear and Lewis Carroll; to translate it as “the absurd” would point too closely to Beckett and Ionesco.<br /><br />2) Veresaev’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Pushkin v zhizni</span> is a biography of the poet in the form of a chronologically ordered collage of memoir excerpts (first published 1926-1927). For the role of Pushkin in Vvedensky’s oeuvre, Russian readers may consult Anna Gerasimova’s wonderful “Bednyi vsadnik, ili Pushkin bez golovy,” available at www.umka.ru/raznoe.html.<br /><br />3) <span style="font-style:italic;">Zaumnyi</span>, that which is past reason, is etymologically linked to the futurist term <span style="font-style:italic;">zaum</span>, standing for transrational language, which Kharms sometimes employed and Vvedensky shunned, preferring transrational sentences to transrational words. The political connotations of equating the “normal” view of life in the 1930s with <span style="font-style:italic;">zaum</span> are obvious.<br /><br />4) Burning the papers of the arrested was a common precaution in case of a police search.<br /><br />5) Druskin’s substitution of “human series” with the “divine series” refers to St. Paul. Paul’s “foolishness of God” (1 Cor. 1:18-25) indicates the mendacity of worldly hierarchies: that which is great in the eyes of the world need not be great in the eyes of God. The Last Judgment shall replace the apparent order of precedence (= human series) with another, truer order (= divine series): as Jesus says, “many that are first shall be last; and the last first” (Mark 10:31).<br /><br />6) In <span style="font-style:italic;">God May Be Everywhere</span>, Vvedensky writes: “The star of absurdity burns / it alone is bottomless.”<br /><br />7) Kharms and Vvedensky were re-arrested in the fall of 1941, after Germany invaded the Soviet Union. Vvedensky died in a prison train on the way to Siberia; Kharms, feigning madness to avoid the firing squad, died in the mental asylum for the criminally insane during the German blockade of Leningrad.<br /><br />8) See Vvedensky’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Gray Notebook</span>, translated by Matvei Yankelevich in <span style="font-style:italic;">New American Writing</span>, 20: 139-44, and as a separate publication by Ugly Duckling Presse (New York, 2002).<br /><br />9) Apophasis: meditative technique invented by pseudo-Dionysius, the sixth-century Christian Neoplatonist pseudoepigrapher for whom God exceeds being, and is therefore beyond anything that can be experienced or thought. In apophasis we move “closer” to God by meditating on our incomprehension of him and on the unlikeness between him and the things that are.<br /><br />10) This translation was made from Mikhail Meilakh’s abridgment of Druskin’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Zvezda bessmyslitsy</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">Stadii ponimania</span> in Aleksandr Vvedensky’s <span style="font-style:italic;">Polnoe sobranie proizvedenii v dvukh tomakh</span> (Moscow, 1993). I also consulted the full text in “…<span style="font-style:italic;">Sborische druzei, ostavlennykh sud’boiu: ‘Chinari’ v tekstakh, dokumentakh i issledovaniakh</span>”, edited by Valerii Sazhin (1998). The customary Russian title of “Rug-Hydrangea” is “Kover-gortenzia”. The Russian title of “Frother” is “Potets”.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#oberiu">(back to germ 6/7)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112441999502978784?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124346869917994272005-08-18T02:32:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:15:46.050-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">CORDLESS LUNCH<br /><br />I now have five bras<br />A training bra<br />An underwire bra<br />A celebration of Brooklyn<br />A stained glass surfboard<br />Flowers faxed in the middle of the sky<br />Source of all numbers & aroma<br />How’s that working out for you<br />Receipts & business dinners &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The silent<br />immunity against bring it on The audit<br />If the shoe &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If the fridge&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If the shipment<br />With these crushed boxes &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;With flatness<br />on my side &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I’m supported&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Counterfeit<br />to be tied by the comeback &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;If the clasp<br />If the snap &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the comeback of sidewalk breakin</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112434686991799427?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124346744865319002005-08-18T02:29:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:15:35.646-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">30 BEARS IN 30 PARKAS<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">for me on my 30th birthday</span><br /><br />My birthday present is the pleasure<br />of duress &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I talk strangers into watch<br />my things a minute & be fresh<br />out of body with undeserved trust<br /><br />The wrong words to the wrong song<br />give you belongings to gather in the back<br />of your mouth &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A flair for the molar<br />responsibility of &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Someone’s sitting there<br /><br />In 30 years my custodial gift<br />the punier the better &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The gift of<br />lending me $2 is reason enough to live<br />Eye on my bag &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The bare minimum<br /><br />The blue green algae of projects &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The simplicity:<br />You have my torn bag &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I’m in the john<br />& yr alive &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I’m on the phone so you must<br />keep breathing & other gifts given to me<br /><br />Eddie’s new home with plugs &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;A watch<br />of Spanish pockets &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;No good luck calls<br />from 18 &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;only contemporary email<br />inbox amilking &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Afterschool self-destruction<br /><br />Incendiary footstools &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Deep fried endive<br />The triumph of cow &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;When thirty sinks in<br />what does it sink in? &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;You don’t need Paddington<br />to know which way the wind’s blowing</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112434674486531900?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124346578221258802005-08-18T02:25:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:15:25.440-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">TODAY’S BEST MUSIC<br /><br />I’m transcended by the world & almost fell<br />for someone &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Right to wisdom<br />Skip the 80 years to get there<br /><br />There is the music we can make<br />& music we need to make<br />& music that makes us<br /><br />I’m not anyone in any room<br />But we all listen &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;The room speaks:<br />Want to know a secret? Promise?<br />We’re a little rock & I’m a little you<br /><br />It’s too cold a night for tickets<br />but the city’s too limited to fit<br />in my pocket so I’m a little<br />anyone with a violation in theirs<br /><br />Is the city possible without music<br />& minor offenses &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;I imagined<br /><br />next year devoid of special calling plans<br />of bleak samsara forecasts & little<br />deaths without the 80 years to get there<br /><br />I never listened to music when<br />I was little & so I was never little<br />Keep my options open with cash<br />in the juke but no buttons pressed<br /><br />Our Love is Here to Stay was<br />my first our song &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; & it wasn’t<br /><br />I’ve converted received wisdom<br />about you & your plans have me<br />converted to tablature<br /><br />The revolution already reactionary<br />if conceived prior to the revolution<br /><br />I forgot my horoscope &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;It wasn’t very<br />good &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Money &nbsp;&nbsp;p- &nbsp;&nbsp;p- money problems<br />You know &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ca-&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Ca-Ching</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/brendan-lorber-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112434657822125880?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124346116826681262005-08-18T02:08:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:14:00.946-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(back to germ 6/7)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">A HISTORY OF THE ENGLISH LANGUAGE<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">for Antonette di Paolo Healey</span><br /><br />filia flammarum,<br />non corpus sed verbum cupit<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />where does one start<br />in search of the first word?<br /><br />fingers poised to pluck a flocculent white<br />blossom from a potted tree,<br />left hand cradling a bowl half-filled with petals,<br />as she looks down she observes a fissure in the stone underfoot<br /><br />intrinsic to the nature of change is the passage of time<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />the modern English word world comes down to us through<br />the Old English woruld meaning “the age of man”<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">ply over ply</span><br /><br />she looks down, the billowing yellow of her garment<br />shifts, wrist afloat<br /><br />no one speaks of the texture<br />of the text anymore. not, at any rate, as he did<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />the pluperfect is used to position events within a time frame<br /><br />it was only once he had lifted<br />the edge of its left wing<br />that he perceived a minute puncture emitting light<br /><br />the question is often where to begin<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />Angus Cameron, at age 42, was the first to die<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />at the bottom of the pile<br />there is a photocopy of her<br />hand nestling a word.<br />glare from her watch has obscured the third through fifth letters<br /><br />if it had not been the tower of Babel<br />God would have found another reason<br />to divide our tongues.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />originally, there was an underlying logic<br />to the order of the alphabet.<br />a repeated sequence: vowel, labial, guttural, and dental<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">lifting, ply over ply</span><br /><br />contained within the stone’s crevice,<br />a weathered scrap of parchment<br /><br />I have imagined you talking a thousand times.<br />you always say the same thing<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />in 1970, at the University of Toronto,<br />Angus Cameron began work on the first comprehensive<br />dictionary of Old English<br /><br />and she said<br /> <span style="font-style:italic;">to be barren like that</span><br /><br />no two birds move alike,<br />flight often mistaken<br />for fall<br /><br />somehow this has taken the form of an elegy,<br />I am unaware of when or how this occurred<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />all things of beauty are also elliptical,<br />the oval in its perfection<br /><br />over the years there have been many<br />who have collected words,<br />among them, my mother<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />Sharon Butler, aged 43, died three years later,<br />this, the summer of 1986<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;feormynd swefa∂<br />a ∂e beado-griman bywan sceoldon;<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">the polishers sleep<br />who should brighten&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;grim battle-masks</span><br /><br />once there was a logic<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />in the medieval period it was the habit<br />of scribes to modify texts while<br />reproducing them<br /><br />you are difficult to translate<br />and I am tired<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />Egyptian to Phoenician to Greek and Latin<br />(according to the early theory of<br />Emmanuel de Rougé)<br /><br />on our mantel, a photograph<br />of the four of them,<br />smiling into flash<br /><br /><span style="font-style:italic;">no form can sustain memory unleashed</span><br /><br />though the parchment bore only three<br />words written in a juvenile hand,<br />on seeing them, the bowl fell from her grasp<br /><br />some posit that all beginnings, as we conceive of them, are fictitious<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />they began with the letter d<br />because it was big,<br />but not too big<br /><br />my mother, silver hair, golden at the tips<br /><br />there is no liaison for leaving a growing subtext.<br />we are not surprised to learn that<br />the second was followed by a third,<br />the third was Ashley who wore her dark hair in braids<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />there is something that the English<br />language will not allow me to convey,<br />an echoing vision<br />of my mother at her desk<br /><br />in a photocopy that has fallen behind<br />the radiator the third letter is now visible<br />but the first obscured<br /><br />between when the bowl fell and<br />when she too collapsed there was<br />an instant in which a similar emission<br />of light could be observed<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />in Old English there were two competing words for<br />our word lord: <span style="font-style:italic;">dryhten</span> and <span style="font-style:italic;">hlaford</span>,<br />the latter, which in its literal sense means<br />“guardian of the loaf,” is the survivor<br /><br />Ashley Crandell Amos died<br />in the year of the letter æ<br />it was her death that most affected my mother<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />the words forge themselves such that<br />that I can no longer recall the object so desired<br /><br />on one side of the glass there are three<br />winged creatures; here, letters gilded with light,<br />this relates to words I imagine you saying<br /><br />if it had not been God, then it might have<br />been the alphabet<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />the fourth death is not of a person,<br />nor is it a death entirely<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;*<br /><br />and like that, <span style="font-style:italic;">fallen</span><br /><br />so we have found a beginning.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(back to germ 6/7)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112434611682668126?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124307970179926322005-08-17T15:24:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:13:51.196-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(back to germ 6/7)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">REFLECTIONS IN A GOLDEN EYE<br /><br />1.<br />Thrice the darkness studies each thing,<br />growing used to the waves contained within it,<br />to the reminiscence of them,<br />to the acids of crystals and images <br />whose arteries smolder without smoke<br />growing used even to the thought of it, when <br />between genesis and equivalence there moves,<br />wandering in the shreds of spectral darkness,<br />a kernel, acted upon, submerged into lime, gradations of gray,<br />the mica hieroglyphs of folds and significations.<br />Number is inconsolable; it is essential<br />to speak of everything in time; and then<br />speech conspires with rumor<br />where, in the keyholes of correspondence, <br />the war of tautology carelessly blossoms.<br /><br />Undoubtedly-familiar is their actuality. Besides,<br />it is common knowledge, but first—<br />that the comparisons (at a certain moment)<br />vanish in the sequence of duration,<br />or rather of the devouring of one another<br />in the imagery of the murky line,<br />where the same story of the clarification of memory<br />and the appropriation of darkness unfolds itself:<br /><br />any, even the smallest plaster cast<br />had to serve as proof <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of the unquestionable “is”<br />(grammar will take care of the rest)<br />at the place of which in the reading something other arose,<br />and it was guessed at as if it were <br />only a part of a vanished whole,<br />the fraction of a single phrase against a string’s quivering, <br />of the passage of black into white, against the conifers of canals,<br />bridges flung to either side of the darkness,<br />but also against the scattered caresses,<br />(as if the blind pressed themselves to the singing of seashells,<br />bearing them close to the ear, while a chorus of insects<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;would have woven a canopy of stillness over them),<br />or, for example, someone thought of bidding farewell,<br />but forgot everything except for “Europe” and “poison-ivy,”<br />although everything occurred long before the appearance of the phrase<br />from which it is now barely possible to recognize<br />that every action was preordained,<br />not only to you, but to the one who in the aftermath<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;will accept it as unconditionally worthless.<br /><br /><br />2.<br /><br />But then which of them—you/she<br />dust scattered remains of a mercury patina—<br />is the sediment of the desire to see from the inside out?<br />where every action is the seam of resurrection,<br />the snared seduction of salt into the metronome of force,<br /><br />But even the contradictory branch in the window’s abyss<br />revealed the scale of the wall’s permanence, <br />separating the gaze from itself and from the firmament,<br />those from others, and the others—from everyone taken together,<br />just as from the chrysalis of the thing, when the division of doubling<br />tenderly marked the brackets of closure,<br />drawing open in different directions: you can’t draw closer<br />in the curvature of a ray crookedly receding<br />through the eye sockets of simmering gold,<br />reflected by the darkness that irradiates things.<br />The remainder—the emulsion’s film, Obvodniy Canal,<br />down singed by children, glassy summer.<br /> <br />They always speak in different tongues.<br />Translation—is a taming, the transition<br />into the state of address, the itinerary altered—<br />so this is the table? brick-laying? three fissures? <br /><br />Let us suppose that everyone has a box<br />in which there would be something<br />that we call a “beetle”…Here, of course, <br />we would be speaking of the “contraction” of the thing,<br />but today we know one another even less,<br />it is more convenient to pretend you are sick, not to answer the phone,<br />to answer monosyllabically,<br />and lowering yourself into bed to scrutinize heat,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the body’s lengthening contours.<br /><br />But when the need arose to offer an example,<br />an ethereal frailty, whose charm enthralled us, <br />caught up with the desire to know,<br />distracting the flocks from their preparation for migrating southward,<br />from the foliage which the October chill<br />unlocked at touchdown in the reflection of wan confessions:<br />once he said that “his heart is broken <br />observing the bird in gossamer depths”;<br />we will remind you: reflections were of little interest to anyone,<br />to see—even now—means to become what you saw.<br />Who didn’t we become…time’s contemplation<br />turned into the most delicate sand<br />running through a woman’s fingers,<br />which we also had the occasion of being,<br />as well as other things: decay, sod,<br />the formula of running, in which there also hid the cause of that<br />which could not be shared with the dead,<br />belonging as it did to everyone in equal measure.<br />Authenticity. But we had also been them,<br />and they transformed into the retina’s honeycomb,<br />into layered descriptions of vision,<br />into sandstone’s nintelligible script,<br />too hurried to follow—<br />into the gloomy optics of clay, the fog’s marble masks,<br />Whose presence the furtive sand drew out of nothing,<br />washing their mouths like the outlines of a letter:<br />(but we are not certain to what “their” refers to)<br />thrice the fledgling, released from the flint<br />in the definition of “genus” is swaddled by oblique darkness.<br /><br />To which one can also get used to with time<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;in the location between the glimmering and what lies beneath...<br /><br /><br />3.<br /><br />Was this really not unknown to us?<br />Yes, many knew. But the others?<br /><br />To begin with the rest.<br />In the end, death transforms the conditions of things<br />in the necessary direction.<br />The elongation of the line does not foresee<br />the enlargement of breathing. Description <br />attempts to lock description in itself.<br /><br />Possibility—is that <br />which “is” transforms into the return to is,<br />when some share the same concrete opinion,<br />and others express their discord.<br /><br />In this case we are found<br />(as if someone were actually looking for us!)<br />in the place where the hour of summer morning is unfolded.<br />Better yet, outside, when a fine rain is falling, when a low wind<br />rustles with fallen leaves. Everything came together<br />and requires no further testimony.<br /><br />Because, it is possible, winter approaches,<br />of winter thoughts in winter notebooks.<br />Possibly, simply the possibility not to cease<br />that which foresees its own cessation.<br />Sometimes even shadow lifted by shadow.<br />Sometimes containment signifies disruption.<br /><br /><br />4.<br /><br />And transfer pictures in a listless list?—<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Can it really be that art will perish?”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;or, let us say: “this coat is too narrow”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;or “later they all returned to Russia”<br /><br />More likely, someone really did show weakness,<br />because there is only substitution, the slippage of histories,<br />syntax of the alternation of forces, little shards on the floor, <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;rotting irises, rats.<br /><br />Description attempts to contain description within itself: <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;which is why “reality is real”<br />This is what consequently doesn’t alter habits—“possibility”.<br />But possibility is only that which adds “is” <br />to the transformation of the message from “will be”.<br />In this case we find ourselves<br />in a place where summer morning is flung open, outside,<br />when a fine rain is falling, when the wind carries an iodine drizzle,<br />when a starfish grows in the roster of a well.<br />Like everything else we are located here—<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;poles of inertia,<br />a dictionary slipping into the dampness of a single history.<br />From a distance, beneath the photograph a caption:<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“the monkey’s straw raincoat”,<br />because it is possible not to cease<br />that, which foresees its own cessation.<br />sometimes even shadow feather-adorned by shadow.<br />Containment at the moment of the signification of rupture.<br /><br /><br />5.<br /><br />Slightly blurred, if you look from a distance,<br />arranged according to phases of displacement,<br />resembling the indefinite form of the verb “to go”,<br />movements, street, among those just like us, cells.<br /><br />From the direction of the gulf, foliage was swept by a shallowing wind,—<br />“I am talking about…about fish,” he said,<br />“Though I wanted to talk about something entirely different.”<br />And at the intersection he added, slapping his pockets –<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“No cigarettes, no matches”.<br />When you close your eyes, something else opens.<br />We remember his smile.<br />It more likely referred to his own thoughts,<br />but certainly not to the fact of absence,<br />the objects that lost their meaning in optical lenses.<br /><br />Books that we put on the shelf.<br /><br />A word<br />that diminishes proportionally to the number of its repetition.<br /><br />Light turns out to be only noise,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;destroying the geometry of a point.<br /><br />“Winter is coming,” I said in answer,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;“Possibly something will change”.<br />But we both knew for certain that is all only talk:<br />about fish in winter spaces, postal addresses,<br />HTML codes—because everything that could have changed<br />has already covertly invaded the wellsprings,<br />having suddenly become the spearhead of the transformations<br />of clouds in the midnight blue of the sky,<br />of thousand-fold branches <br />spread out in the arctic lens<br /><br />in which lately the eye can see us,<br />walking among those just like us, many of many,<br />keeping a scattered count of inverted things,<br />unlocked to the space beneath the eyelids,<br />and—for whatever reason—to seconds, of which <br />thirty six million,<br />seven hundred and twenty thousand<br />remained that autumn until the end of the century,<br /><br />when—if you look, but still from a distance—<br />we transformed stealthily and slowly<br />into the caption to the photographs of the uncountable.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(back to germ 6/7)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112430797017992632?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124306446807644872005-08-17T15:20:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:13:32.943-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><br />Curtis sees the human country<br />brittle from distraction,<br />life blanched as capital<br />passes it through veils.<br /><br />The world-ghost stalks<br />the world. Will it leak back<br />into a body, doing cartwheels<br />saying I am that, I am you?<br /><br />He climbs to the roof,<br />he unsticks a jammed weathervane.<br />Wind pours across the arrow<br />luscious and complicated!</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p6.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112430644680764487?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124306402964878922005-08-17T15:19:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:12:58.350-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p7.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><br />Dan asks, does my attention evolve<br />to a plot of raw care?<br />Will it tend the riven brother<br />as well as the whole?<br /><br />A care that surrounds<br />even forward, even past,<br />not the sudden bee-line<br />from mere eyelets?<br /><br />He swims to the<br />bottom of the lake,<br />he finds<br />the lost penknife.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p7.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112430640296487892?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124306346927240902005-08-17T15:17:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:12:48.763-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><br />Seth thinks, is clear sight<br />level? Will my understanding<br />be the simple fact of things<br />or the deep one?<br /><br />Should I fold with strangers<br />from a morality of the summit?<br />Do crowds offer the key?<br />Should it be weathered or shiny?<br /><br />A hiss of carbon<br />happens before the barn.<br />He runs through the acreage<br />and blows out the flash.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112430634692724090?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124306247181790262005-08-17T14:45:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:12:39.660-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><br />Kenzo wonders, would my step<br />be sounds of articulation<br />or the push that puts<br />me into serrations?<br /><br />The bits that chirp<br />mid-distance—sentries<br />of listening—can I create<br />from what I detect?<br /><br />He passes a post office<br />on the south-west quadrant.<br />Its trim, a comprehensive blue,<br />puts him in a state.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112430624718179026?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124304322722094262005-08-17T14:44:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:12:29.496-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><br />Abu asks, are the ones who show up<br />made for the village? Are they<br />the appeared? An older one<br />appeared, the midst had changed,<br /><br />the others looking up.<br />Does the found voice corrugate<br />on the other side of the map?<br />What do the forgotten want?<br /><br />He sits against the cistern,<br />he calculates a rug.<br />The weave follows the argument<br />and navigates the difference.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112430432272209426?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124304244527718212005-08-17T14:42:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:12:19.473-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body"><br />Roger thinks, do I desire<br />from momentum of desire?<br />Is engagement metaphysic<br />or artless and tough?<br /><br />Attraction studies the minute,<br />evolution puts in front.<br />Is my desire reanimated<br />by stripping it of nostalgia?<br /><br />He hears a trace/<br />location bounce-back.<br />He saves the falling<br />jar in the dark.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112430424452771821?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124304143325436752005-08-17T14:39:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:12:05.570-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p7.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">SOME BOYS<br /><br /><br />Mark asks, am I made or spoken?<br />Do I come before the chrysalis<br />collie&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;carpet&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;cabbage<br />I collect with a baby’s rale?<br /><br />Transmissions feeling their way back<br />until they stop at a road—<br />will my origin, like squandered<br />offerings, make a noise from the mound?<br /><br />He feels for the fuse<br />dropped behind the dash.<br />He twists and reaches<br />its shape of small bullet.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p7.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/george-albon-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112430414332543675?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124228564741254972005-08-16T17:35:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:11:54.760-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">A FREE-FOR-ALL ENDS AT A.C. AIRPORT<br /><br /><blockquote><span style="font-style:italic;">The airport parking lot was known as a free-for-all where tow trucks routinely had to sort out the handiwork… cars parked at all angles… often with no discernible ingress and egress.<div style="text-align:right;">—Amy S. Rosenberg&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</div></span></blockquote><br /><br />New Jersey is the greatest poem never written.<br />Not an accident, but constant accidental.<br /><br />Parking space is the central fact to man born in America.<br />There are several hundred ways not to understand.<br /><br />Despite the invitation to excess, in A.C.<br />no bets are placed on the stay-at-home team, Pomona Nomads.<br /><br />Directions: 1.) Park and lock your car 2.) Fly to Florida for the winter<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;3.) Remember, there’s little reason to think <span style="font-style:italic;">New Jersey</span> when you’re not there—<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;even if that's where you parked.<br /><br />Fluxus is the name of the vapors coming off the cinder fields<br />meeting the black birds as they come in at night.<br /><br />Before the war, getting a good spot<br />was what most Americans considered warfare.<br /><br />The forward function is a maneuver<br />all novice tow truck drivers like to do for you.<br /><br />Your delight in pattern and repetition is dropped off<br />to search a dusty field filled with hundreds of towed cars.<br /><br />Until you actually say it, unscriptability and New Jersey rhyme.<br />The State’s equilibrium is located elsewhere.<br /><br />The car alarm. The unison HONK. The techno field jam.<br />The songs Bruce Springsteen will not write anymore.</div><br /><br /><a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112422856474125497?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124228098767939912005-08-16T17:31:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:11:46.510-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">ORIGAMI HEADPHONES<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">after the slowdown 2000</span><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">severely clear</span><br /><br />The funeral business was creepy as it probably still is. <br />We knew we wouldn’t change the world, but had the decency <br />to embarrass the guilty. Persons in the house were often made <br />to feel an unspecified levity. Whether it had anything to do with <br />our florescent ceilings flickering one thing and our computers <br />flickering another you can better tell. It was all in front of us, part <br />of the articulated body of problems, with dozens of bit parts <br />which also broke our hearts.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">emergency numbers</span><br /><br />Dirty waters found us before we found them. <br />It might sound obvious, but by the time everyone knew<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;there was no one to tell. <br />Saved from the waste of waters, the secret <br />and hidden determination of some living <br />and intelligent nature—ancient waters over the present world.<br />We distrusted our spigots, there was no story.<br />One day everyone was just drinking bottled water.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">one idea about terrycloth</span><br /><br />A widely felt appreciation for texture. Linc sat on his<br />red rubber seat listening to headphones, reading his<br />magazine. Thought (finger wagging, pointing on a T-shirt),<br /><span style="font-style:italic;">I can't believe, I can't, can't, believe the way you acted today.</span><br />He was over it, but couldn't get the same emphasis,<br />so he turned it into a song.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">start a course of study</span><br /><br />Your blue Ford Pinto<br />explosion law suit.<br />There's no case.<br />Everyone knows<br />they're a death trap.<br />You try anyway,<br />all burned up like you are.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">a mysterious work</span><br /><br />In the essay about the bloodied and smear-stained<br />kitchen Santas there is a mini-chapter about "Humor."<br />Humorous people talk of the serious<br />and serious people talk of the serious.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">the old</span><br /><br />"Look at those filthy windows. I've got stained glass<br />windows in my house," the old woman gestured from<br />her kitchen chair.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">why birds don't fly into the glass</span><br /><br />Bird watchers have nothing on<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;what the birds see.<br />The birds are amp-ed<br />by powers of 10X10. Ornithology<br />is the public name of intricacy<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;written in the sky.<br />Augurs never were and never will be<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;a metaphor.<br />They really see the shit.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">good design is good business</span><br /><br />We weren't the we<br />we thought.<br /><br />A bull's-eye. Brass tacks.<br />One station in your ear.<br /><br />We called our cell when we said.<br />We were waiting to have our baby.<br /><br />Big things happen<br />before your eyes "Whitey."<br /><br /><span style="font-weight:bold;">roughly fickle activity</span><br /><br />A father had died, several were dead. <br />People stood loosely together. <br />Their standing was a swerve felt <br />against other things once felt— <br />ideas that survive their occasion; <br />Something physical kept close <br />similar to 2000 B.C. when the Japanese king <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;had ‘flying sun discs’ for advisors, <br />or when Sodom and Gomorrah were nuked by angels <br />for not being perverted enough, and Knossos was microwaved <br />for no reason at all. If you wanted to know a good restaurant, <br />you could still ask your butcher. A cat and the shadow of the cat. <br />The weight of the head in the hand remained in the hands.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112422809876793991?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124227881270596502005-08-16T17:29:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:11:34.443-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">ANIMATED FOLKIES<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;<span style="font-style:italic;">for Edmund Berrigan</span><br /><br />All ninjas seem to be landing here.<br />They must be on break.<br /><br />You realize, you realize, you realize<br />there’s something.<br /><br />It’s about time we hear the story <br />of the lucky duck. My lucky duck.<br /><br />Great skeins crashing, crashing,<br />kid kid kid.<br /><br />There’s trouble when the old slow furies<br />start their laughing;<br /><br />There’s trouble and there’s trouble<br />and there’s the old slow furies.<br /><br />The gall of your pretend hero,<br />eating twenty-eight chicken tacos<br /><br />before the Short Story class<br />you never knew that ain’t right—<br /><br />it ain’t—and twenty-eight less tacos in the world.<br />Somehow the string section makes sense.<br /><br />The occupying ninjas like a house full of cats;<br />they must live here now.<br /><br />The film runs along.<br />And the furies, old and slow.<br /><br />Jesus Christ, they’ve still got it.<br />School is out, time for a love story.<br /><br />Your best friend says it plain,<br />says, “He can make you happy.”<br /><br />There’s no leap, nothing will blow these tires;<br />kids keep saying regret regret,<br /><br />playing that car<br />the windows closed—<br /><br />makes me <span style="font-style:italic">what</span> to write a song.<br />Don’t look up.<br /><br />Ex-large and kindness<br />kind of an oversized-ness.<br /><br />Can’t get enough of your crazy love.<br />Blue sky blue sky so big;<br /><br />boy don’t fit the description<br />even at night, the spangled blue<br /><br />surrounding the car frames your face,<br />totally cheap frames.<br /><br />Everything else, blown away, rolled down<br />rolled down your window<br />Yeah, I’ve been there—<br />there ain’t nothing there.<br /><br />Now where are you, can’t hear<br />a thing in the wind.<br /><br />Now where are you?<br />Now where? Fury. Fury.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/tom-devaney-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112422788127059650?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124223477050540392005-08-16T16:16:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:10:04.826-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/ange-mlinko-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/ange-mlinko-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">ROMANCE<br /><br />Apart from the ligneous, Sanskrit lilacs,<br />there was a strange purplish flower constructed<br />like a clock bees could not be deterred from<br />—so engrossed they were, groomed by a finger;<br />it was the Danish boy who claimed to have had<br />a hard time learning German, but not English,<br />what an older man teaches to a Japanese girl<br />among the fig trees and stone basins,<br />as much integer as virgin, when the skinheads come<br />to the southeast staircase by the Greek marbles,<br />the only published place with a bathroom.<br />Security caught one of them writing a novel,<br />“Smaragdus.” Taking the calcined ashes of seaweed,<br />cuttlefish ink and a young salmon on its way back<br />to freshwater, it was possible to make an elixir<br />that would make one a weapon: a full-grown man.<br />It was embarrassing to be transported<br />on the howdah when in the process<br />of assignation we were nomads.<br />Someone said Portuguese was a dialect<br />of Spanish; though we were neither,<br />without a drop of such blood as sang in the veins<br />of Camöens, the bathroom was faïence,<br />steam on things, like wax on Fassi writing tablets.<br />In addition to green, brown and blue fatigues<br />there was silver camouflage to wear<br />in the coastal mists to complete<br />the theological task of appearances,<br />unmolding the thoughts we bore the brunt of<br />in order to exaggerate into paradise<br />from the nave of the street, or at the transept<br />under swaying traffic lights of transposed bells<br />nobly penurious but solvent in histories,<br />where the boat decants a bird,<br />displaces pages toward the shore,<br />where one was a citizen of every part<br />of paradise before one came to dwell<br />in its Rome, and call it Literature by the Sea.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/ange-mlinko-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/ange-mlinko-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112422347705054039?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124223348935009692005-08-16T16:12:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:09:54.616-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/ange-mlinko-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/ange-mlinko-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">THE INTRIGUES<br /><br />If every page was a frontispiece, and a book not that<br />laborious farming to some catastrophic end<br />which copying eyes would retrace, then I could<br />dispense with jealousy, I mean genealogy,<br />and be original every time, for the conversions<br />that inspiration is. A phantom face value haunts me,<br />but the inverted library; candles at the bottom of the pool;<br />these are the ghosts of the glass house designed<br />to be invisible in a wilderness; or I could begin<br />to incorporate all the reflections of things<br />that certify their inversions. Meanwhile the music<br />strobes so rapidly it uncoils in understanding, not time,<br />adrift in technical registers holding relations in light patterns<br />all the night til morning’s mimosas under blue sky embowering<br />our nicer noise to a gold-stringed noon acoustic.<br /><br />A, I do not know if you are negative or intensive,<br />in a city like a double window whereby all images<br />of real-life death, like photography a kind of painting<br />different ways around the park and through it<br />shadows feint across paths fallen trees.<br />If it is spiritual having applications to make,<br />dogs patterning imprimatur, let flowers grow always in defiles<br />gluing flame to flame in endless Spring duplications.<br />Under the arcade, thinking the landscape<br />in the mirrored building is the true outside<br />a sparrow butts its reflections like handwriting <br />meeting itself on both sides of a diary page.<br />And not to be trapped in a dream, a journey as far<br />as the looking glass, which extends along an axis<br />that displaces the eye as midpoint, or befall ourselves.<br /><br />The argument that year was that “hyacinth”<br />should not be used where “flower” suffices.<br />Here where brand-name vices include Lust and Envy<br />and Representation, is it the latter<br />that leads me to sleep too much, or is it<br />vernacular lavender softening the rocks<br />that makes, well, <span style="font-style:italic;">dejà vú</span> seem avant-garde?<br />The nights are cool, and accumulation at the heart<br />drafts the ghost I told you about, that generates<br />a book out of two foci and places it so<br />to read its term in its definition, a glow on the horizon<br />that is also my sunburn. It goes about with a movie<br />playing on the underside of its umbrella, tropical red<br />as the ghost devolves to dew blobs and whispers<br />of the lawyers of Argentina and Gibraltar.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/ange-mlinko-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/ange-mlinko-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112422334893500969?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124218016376531442005-08-16T14:46:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:09:41.166-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">GENERATIONS LIVE INSIDE THE ASPHALT<br /><br />Now leaves traces<br />Sprung verse carnival<br />Conceals what riots<br />Vast like sunsets<br /><br />Place as literal<br />Place of rescue<br />Climb to window<br />Wall in situ<br /><br />Cause of merriment<br />Laughed-at negligence<br />Uncouth sideshows<br />Jackdaw hammers<br /><br />Earth of frenzy<br />Lake-girl stutters<br />Pair of curses<br />Nearness buckles.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112421801637653144?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124217974617148812005-08-16T14:45:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:09:31.360-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">03/06/02<br /><br />hand of pattern<br />so to tend<br />the dirt-<br /><br />land of copious<br />motion withall<br />the minute<br /><br />brigades&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;brigands<br />unto (life)<br />went out<br /><br />light and<br />lit-up<br />what<br /><br />meaning is<br /><br />permutations<br />of a.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p3.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p5.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112421797461714881?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124217915352292962005-08-16T14:43:00.000-04:002007-03-20T21:52:30.461-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">MATTERS OF MATTERS OF CHANCE<br /><br />Revolutions in the myth<br />The concupiscent urge<br />To think along the axis<br /><br />Of thinking tired rake<br />Apostrophe in the atonic<br />Manner of trees<br /><br />One thing’s for certain<br />The “x” asserted<br />On hand represents<br /><br />The wish awash<br />With fantasy’s<br />Error<br /><br />Can’t be scolded<br />For wanting<br />These collections<br /><br />Appearing<br />In windows<br />Before me.<br /><br /><br />**<br /><br />SOME BLIND WISHING GONE ASTRAY<br /><br />Some stray dogs think<br />Some blink<br />Some worry and some<br />Will die with-<br />Out remembering even.<br /><br /><br />**<br /><br />THE MUSIC OF CREATING ATTRACTIONS<br /><br />Looking at the planets ourselves in place<br />Vast we were intransigent echoes<br />Such walls as these the wires too close<br />Mirror to send the cup of water<br />Low-key urge un-err in time<br />News from day surrounds the figure<br />Keep your hands at sides and kiss<br />Lest the age untell the murmur<br />With the best the worst incursion.<br /><br /><br />**<br /><br />Undone issue-based factory-whip<br />“Only a child” on the brink<br />Of freak encounter with<br /><br />Cause-and-effect<br /><br />Intimate tricks<br />Pattern links<br />In brain and why<br />The blueprint of<br /><br />Numbers.<br /><br /><br />**<br /><br />Dead left for<br />Claim hope<br />Musical topple<br />Life on screen.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p4.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112421791535229296?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124217841167721692005-08-16T14:42:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:09:11.233-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">EYES ON TOP OF CAREENING MATTER<br /><br />Revolutions in the picture<br />mirror-case buckets<br />of involuted eyes<br /><br />here take this mask<br />it fits infinitely<br />more ways<br /><br />than one dis-<br />cover over-<br />worked leak<br /><br />of havoc in-<br />doors to stay<br />with and say<br />light-<br />ly<br />come un-<br /><br />done.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p3.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112421784116772169?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124217774970349722005-08-16T14:41:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:09:01.216-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">CAVALIER MALCONTENTS<br /><br />Falsely deduced by the<br />False MECHANISMS of false<br />Reduction<br /><br />I know how<br />the ‘yes’-ing bird stings<br /><br />Its mouth has a <br />Hand in the<br />LYRICAL–<br /><br />Ballad<br />Invalid<br /><br />Aims<br />Attract Monotone–<br /><br />Tendencies<br /><br />(Clinical<br />Practices)<br /><br />The vertical<br />Impasse<br />Of TRUTH<br /><br />What now say<br />That again<br />Into the<br /><br />LINE.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/lisa-lubasch-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112421777497034972?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124217093814640972005-08-16T14:29:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:08:51.886-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/genya-turovskaya-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/genya-turovskaya-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">COSMIC NAUGHT<br /><br /><br /><br />MIR<br /><br />59 seconds or 110 days<br /><br />One can have pleasant dreams in the nude 300 miles<br />above Kazakhstan<br /><br /><br /><br />GAGARIN<br /><br />At hand, my feeling now, till now, at this instant, in a few minutes <br /><br />Handwriting did not change though the hand was weightless<br /><br />I did not sit in the chair, as before, but was suspended in mid air<br />Arms and legs feel as previously, the same as during weightlessness, but now they have weight<br />I ceased to be suspended over the chair, but eased myself into it <br />I felt the whole of my life <br />Am I happy? Of course I am happy<br />A mighty spaceship will carry me into the far-away<br /><br /><br />MIR<br /><br />No vacuum, no incoherent null, trusted null, the null itself<br /><br />I am four years old <br /><br />I was fourteen years old<br /><br />I was watching I remember and I knew<br /><br />upon reentry I would walk or crawl but I would not be borne aloft again<br />the shoulders of the crowd<br /><br />O Kazakhstan!<br /><br /><br /><br />GAGARIN<br /><br />Gravity is a heavy load The atmosphere abrades<br />The stars don’t twinkle here<br /><br />No null, no time, no I<br /><br /><br /><br />MIR<br /><br />I did not know it but was told <br /><br />No perfume is as sweet as the sweet air of Kazakhstan<br /><br />To enable, to choose, to bring the station down <br />to the great square fields of the collective farms<br /><br />The dividing line is very thin: a belt of film<br />delicate spheres<br /><br />Gradual and lovely, it is difficult to put into words<br /><br /><br /><br />GAGARIN<br /><br />When I emerged from the shadow of the dense stars I didn’t see the moon<br /><br /><br /><br />MIR<br /><br />Mir was just a page, a quick low pass<br />Seconds disappeared<br /><br />Maybe we saw the space<br />the last time in the world, maybe<br />this is not true, God knows<br /><br />falling<br />debris breaks up and burns <br />Thoughts under control<br />tonight we begin the irreversible shift <br /><br />renounce technical measures to fulfill <br />the final stage <br /><br /><br />GAGARIN<br /><br />This burn, this slow elliptical blast and hurl<br />into the waters<br />between fickle alignments<br />and impoverished industries<br /><br />fall harmless, uselessly into the sea<br /><br /><br /><br />MIR<br /><br />Both peace and world<br />lost contact, suddenly lost<br />retain losses, pseudonyms<br />and fall<br /><br /><br /><br />GAGARIN<br /><br />Disperse toward me<br /><br />Things can see, hear<br /><br />I can feel solid <br />fall<br /><br /><br />MIR<br /><br />To walk on sea legs but to walk on Kazakhstan</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/genya-turovskaya-p1.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/genya-turovskaya-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112421709381464097?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124216968391773012005-08-16T14:23:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:08:39.866-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/genya-turovskaya-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/genya-turovskaya-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">PLACEBO AFFLICTION<br /><br />1. <br /><br />the defect of those who do not <br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;tolerate the minute particles<br /><br />remember this is the new world strain<br /> <br />toward one radius&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;some to another<br /> <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;sum of all<br /><br /><br />happiness is not a potato<br /><br /><br />to remit <br /><br />our dismaying origins&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;we<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;(in)&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;(need of)<br />must count ourselves&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;dire<br /><br /><br />among those for whom there can be no forbearance<br /><br /><br />in this book or elsewhere<br /><br /><br />the unluckiest ones of all<br /><br /><br /><br />2.<br /><br />upstream&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;beautiful theories<br /><br /><br />their ships had<br /><br />suffered the limits of their bodies<br /><br />with uneasy heart<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;some fragment of their lunacy<br /><br />consented for the sake <br /><br />of rhythms more inexorable<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;a thousand circadian cartwheels<br /><br /><br />ludicrous circus marvels of the emperor<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of manual occupation<br /><br /><br /><br />again in our little bed<br /><br />motor idling <br /><br />in the mitigation of loneliness<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />3.<br /><br />what alleviated <br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;what<br /><br />forsworn by the damage<br /><br /><br />careful of the censors I am now<br /><br />reliant on <br /><br />false<br /><br />papers&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;evening vagaries<br /><br /><br />ride the tourist bus through the <br /><br />bad neighborhoods<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;snapping <br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;snapping<br /><br /> <br />4.<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;like anything that has been broken once will<br /><br />break again&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;abruptly<br /><br />iron weathered<br /><br /><br />powdering into gray states<br /><br />weeping in the elevator <br /><br /><br />Death is so alarming<br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;(the length to which)<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;(the impossible subject)<br /><br /> <br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;less and less<br /><br />a pensioner&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;a baby’s head<br /><br />its armature so small and languishing<br /><br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;held out<br /><br />her arms to me <br /><br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;let me<br /><br />do the work of my life</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/genya-turovskaya-p2.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table2">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/genya-turovskaya-p2.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112421696839177301?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124215932373029762005-08-16T14:10:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:06:05.863-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/dallas-wiebe-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/dallas-wiebe-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">COMFORT YE, MY PEOPLE<br /><br />Clutch my gut,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;you butt singer<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of the future,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;you fizzle grip<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of all darkness.<br />Roast turkey in the half-hearted<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;gallery of the ribald<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;pandiculations of merry jerks.<br />Why clap up the timid slips<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of the lips when hagiography<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;is the lust of melancholy?<br />Don’t answer that,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;you far-from-odorless brat<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of the half-schooners.<br />Don’t even think about<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;hunkering on the pothandles<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of filmy corpses. Ask not<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;yourself. Fix not the thimbles.<br />Figure to be elevated<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;on catastrophic phalanges.<br />Digital, oh boy, you said it.<br />Knock, knock.<br />I’m here.</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/dallas-wiebe-p5.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/dallas-wiebe-p1.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112421593237302976?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-11962134.post-1124215811483225222005-08-16T14:08:00.000-04:002005-09-07T21:05:52.343-04:00<a name="top"></a><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/dallas-wiebe-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/dallas-wiebe-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><br /><br /><div class="poems-body">GET ’EM WHILE THEY’RE HOT<br /><br />Four thirty-seconds of their teeth<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;chattering in harmony,<br />The cold choir leaned<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;over the railing<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;to drop their icy decibels<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;on the peruke of the Protestant padre,<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;who pandiculated<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;overtly over the arctic Scriptures.<br />“Hot dog,” Christ the Pantocrator cried.<br />“Loosen those uvulas in a hallelujah<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;for the spiritual twitching of the trigger.<br />Fold out the magazines of automatic rifles<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and read therein the fate<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;of multinational mind-sets<br />Pray for me now<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and forget that I have no IRA<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and social security doesn’t cover<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;Messiahs.”<br />On the Palestinian plains<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the tanks and helicopters of Jehovah<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;rattle up to the dry cisterns.<br />Inside the arid rocks<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;dark eyes shimmer at gunpoint.<br />“We are the emissaries of peace,”<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;the soldiers say<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;and tickle their hairy triggers.<br />“Soon you will study war no more.”<br />The eagle’s claws corkscrew<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;down out of the clouds.<br />“Mustard,” we say.<br />“We need mustard for our gums.<br />We can’t nestle in your grip<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;until the choir sings<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;‘Whoopee, Selah and Amen.’<br />We know full well<br />A fool and his hot dog<br />&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;are soon parted.”</div><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/dallas-wiebe-p4.html#top">(<<---) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/04/germ-67.html#table">(germ 6/7) </a><a href="http://germspot.blogspot.com/2005/08/dallas-wiebe-p6.html#top">(--->>)</a></span></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/11962134-112421581148322522?l=germspot.blogspot.com' alt='' /></div>Macgregorhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14539163569949381538noreply@blogger.com0